Mystery at Roselander Mansion
by GeakLover
Summary: Johnlock Story. Part 3 - Mystery at Roselander Mansion. When Sherlock is reviewing old cases he discovers something strange in an apparent suicide photograph, leading him to investigate. Mystery/Adventure/Eventual Romance
1. Chapter 1 - Out on a Limb

**Part 3 of the _Some_ _Things are Meant to Be _Trilogy**

**The Mystery at Roselander Mansion**

**Chapter 1**

**Out on a Limb**

"Think of deductive reasoning like this," Sherlock was irritated. He began a short monologue, striding over the coffee table from behind the couch to take the center of the room. "This is the most primitive example that I can _possibly_ fathom. A bullet to the head always kills. A man has a bullet in his head. Therefore, that man is dead. That is _sound_ reasoning and there is no way around it. Do you understand?"

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, exhausted. "Sherlock, if a depressed man is found dead hanging by the neck that is a _strong_ indication of a suicide."

"A strong indication yes, one explanation of some of the facts, yes, however_"

John Watson sat by the fire, listening to them argue and staring at the photographs from the crime scene. The first one depicted a grey faced cadaver hanging from the end of a twenty foot tree limb over the middle of a shallow fish pond. The location was Diagon park, about two miles from their flat. Frost covered the grass surrounding the tree and shone with a thin patina of ice. Sherlock had nicked photographs from half a dozen recent suicides in London for a study he had been working on. There was something in that photograph which had thrown Sherlock into badgering the detective inspector into coming to their flat.

The second photograph had depicted the ladder that the man would have had to use in order to reach the branch. He had carried the ladder through the shallow water below the end of the branch, climbed it and tied the noose. Then he kicked it over, letting it fall into the shallow water below him and disappear from sight. When Sherlock had observed the first photograph he'd smiled and commented that the man had at least chosen a scenic location and that with the ladder hidden under the water it made Anderson's photograph of it bordered on the level of artistic.

Then he had frowned, squinting at the photograph. His eyes widened. "No, no this is wrong. All wrong." He'd muttered before pulling out his phone to text the detective inspector. John continued to gaze at the photograph, wondering what had tipped Sherlock off to the photograph being _wrong_.

John looked up to see Sherlock and Greg staring each other down. He'd lost track of their conversation.

"All water freezes below thirty two degrees." Sherlock drawled. "To get the rope around that branch the victim would have had to walk _through_ the water. He didn't fly over it got godsake."

"Okay, what's your point Sherlock?" Greg said, crossing his arms.

John laughed, finally understanding. "So, there's frost on the ground and a thin layer of ice over the top of the pond, but none on the bloke's trousers. His clothes are dry when they ought to be frozen stiff up to the knee." He passed the photograph to Greg, who stared at it in disbelief.

"Mid thigh." Sherlock muttered.

"Shut up."

"It should, shouldn't it." The detective inspector said. He shook his head and ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair.

"We can rule out the possibility that the victim climbed the tree based on the condition of his hands." Sherlock said, searching through the autopsy photographs. His voice was excited. "His hands are smooth, if he'd climbed that there would be marks. Not to mention the position of the ladder. We can also rule out the possibility that he waded through the water. The only possibility remaining is that someone waded out, set the ladder, hung the noose, carried the man up the ladder and decorated the tree with his corpse like a Christmas ornament."

John grimaced at the comparison.

"The autopsy report showed no signs of a struggle. His neck was broken, no sedatives were found during the autopsy, and he left a note, Sherlock." Greg said, shaking his head. "That put aside, you're right."

Sherlock pondered this information. "Why would someone move him then? Why not just call the police when they found him?"

"Maybe he killed himself in a place that would draw attention to something that someone didn't want attention drawn to? They moved him to keep eyes off themselves?" John suggested, getting to his feet. He came to stand beside Sherlock, who glanced down at him.

Sherlock didn't look convinced. "Why a public park? Why all the way out on the end of a limb over a pond? Like some kind of display of morbid modern art? If someone moved him to draw attention away from themselves they could have chose any tree in the park to accomplish that. They chose the one over the water, the centerpiece of the park. Carrying a dead man that far up a ladder? Wading through freezing water? It was hard, it was uncomfortable, it took _effort_."

Greg cleared his throat. "The, uh - note he left was a little funny, actually. In my defense, he had just come out of a mental hospital. His family had him admitted when they thought he was gonna do himself in."

Sherlock's head snapped around, his eyes were calculating and cold. "Funny? Funny how? Is it here? Did you bring it?"

Lestrade huffed, reaching into his coat pocket to draw out a plastic bag. Inside was a neatly folded letter.

John leaned around Sherlock's shoulder as he scanned the letter. "It's… It's a bunch of sloppy gibberish. Makes no sense."

The whole letter consisted of nonsense words that looked like they had been carefully and meticulously written. Sherlock could see from the thickness of the lines. At the bottom of the letter was a swift signature.

"Tommy John Roselander." Sherlock muttered, reading the name. He looked up, smiling coldly at Lestrade. "This is not gibberish and I am thoroughly convinced that every person on your investigation team is far more mentally disabled than this man appeared to be. How could none of them see this? How could you not? Stupid sods."

"Sherlock." John growled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "This is a classic and embarrassingly simple transposition cipher. Roselander is the keyword. However, the majority of ordinary people know nothing about ciphers of any kind. This particular style suggests a military history."

He pointed to the autopsy photographs. "The tattoo of initials over his breast is vivid and has been re-touched three times. Once every five years or so. His marriage was a happy one but ended tragically with his wife's death, thus prompting his own suicide. He showed signs of mental illness and suicidal tendencies that he developed from the loss and his family had him admitted to an institution. The Healing Hands Institute, from the wristband on his left arm."

"Fantastic." John said.

Sherlock smiled down at him before glancing up at Lestrade. His eyes were sharp and searching. "The letter was folded a total of six times. Where was it found?"

Greg whistled, impressed. "In his left sock. You got one bit wrong though, his wife didn't die. She disappeared, about two months ago. In South Brondette, on the hiking trails near the waterfall. She went out running and never came back. Detective Inspector Marvin Ezell was on the case."

Sherlock groaned. Ezell was a gruff old man who hated Sherlock. Their egos clashed like titans at war in the heavens and the result was thunderous. John had seen it once, where Sherlock had attempted to step in on one of Ezell's cases and was forcibly removed after making the detective inspector look like an ass in front of his entire staff. It had been quite a dramatic scene and was not a situation that John was keen to repeat.

"Get me a copy of the case file. I am going to find out where he actually died. He hid a coded suicide note in his sock before killing himself. He went out of his way to hide it so that it would be found only if he were undressed which was most likely to be during his autopsy. He wanted the police to find it and _you_ almost missed it."

John ran a hand through his hair, watching Greg's face as he nodded, giving in.

"Gonna have to contact the family, let them know. I'll be at the Yard." He said as he walked out the door.

Sherlock turned to John. He was holding out the letter. "I need you to translate this for me." He said, dropping it in John's hand.

John huffed a laugh. "Why do you think I know how to translate it?"

Sherlock smiled at him as he threw his coat on and tied his scarf. "You can learn on Google. I've got to go out. I need to harass my pathologist."

John laughed. "By harass you mean -"

"By harass I mean shamelessly flirt my way into having unlimited access to every off limits piece of equipment in the building."

John shook his head. "You are terrible."

Sherlock smiled over his shoulder as he walked out the door. "Oh, Molly loves it."

Molly Hooper was a tall brunette with a petite nose, small mouth and bright eyes. She was a moderately attractive woman but didn't often take pains to embellish the beauty she had. In a white lab coat and blue sanitary gloves she stood, leaning over a table and analyzing the smoke saturated lungs of a fifty nine year old heart attack victim.

"You should phone Mika." A deep voice said from behind her.

Molly jumped violently, sucking in a gasping breath as her heart rate skyrocketed from the shock. "Sherlock!" She turned and gave him a swift smack across the arm. Sherlock grinned, hands in his pockets. His shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.

"It's not funny. Please don't do that again. You know I hate it." Despite her tone Sherlock could see the pleasure she took from his attention.

"You should phone Mika." He repeated slowly as he leaned over her cadaver, looking inside.

"Sorry? Why?" Molly asked, confused.

"You forgot to let in your cat this morning when you left for work. Surely he's hungry."

Molly's mouth dropped open from shock. "Oh!" She pulled out her phone and sent a quick text request for her next door to put out a bowl of food for Benjamin, her slim grey tabby.

"How did you know I forgot to feed him?" She muttered as her slender fingers struck the keypad. Sherlock circled the room slowly, looking at the work that was strewn across the table tops.

"Because you slept in late this morning. I can see from the oils in your hair and on your skin that you haven't showered yet today. Your braid was done in a hurry, you've worn the same accessories you wore yesterday. Also, you brought your bigger lunch bag so you packed both breakfast and lunch when routinely you take breakfast at home. You were in quite a hurry. People often forget little things when they're pressed for time."

Molly grimaced, blushing lightly. His deductions had been embarrassingly accurate.

"Why do you have to know _all_ of that?" She said, shaking her head.

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "Not good? I thought it would be good to remind you_"

Molly shook her head, smiling. "No, no it's fine. It is good you reminded me. Thank you. Erm, what have you got there?" She asked meekly, noticing that Sherlock was carrying a cardboard box.

He glanced down at the box. "Ah, yes. The clothing of an apparent suicide victim. I need to run some tests. I've got exactly two hours and fifteen minutes until John's finished with the task I've set for him." His voice was brisk.

Molly looked up at him sternly. Sherlock smiled into her eyes.

"Don't touch _anything_ on those three counters." She said, pointing them out. She smiled as she turned her back on him.

Back at 221B Baker Street John Watson sat, pen in hand and attempted to decode the message before him. The first step was figuring out what kind of cipher it was, then taking the steps to solve it. He stared at the meaningless words on the paper before him and felt a headache start to brew…

A while later, Sherlock swept through the door overflowing with energy. He threw off his scarf and jacket. "He wasn't even in London when he died!"

John looked surprised and Sherlock continued. "The mental hospital happens to be located a few miles from where his body was found. Whoever planted him at the park wanted it to look like the suicide was the first thing he did when he was released from the hospital. However, the timeline doesn't match up. He slipped out of the hospital in the afternoon last week, around five o'clock. He was found fifteen hours later. In that time, he traveled to his home in Brondette. I know because he changed from the clothes he'd worn at the hospital into fresh ones from his home. He wouldn't go home and change just to come back to London. He killed himself somewhere in Brondette. His body was no more than six hours dead when we discovered him so obviously he was found and moved rather quickly."

"Jesus, you're sure he was moved? What if he was drugged, taken up the ladder and hung?"

"There would have been sedatives in his system. There were none."

"Anything else?"

"One thing that I can't figure out. I found traces of Teraflourethylene on his clothes." Sherlock tossed a notepad down on the table. John stared down at the net equation and back up at Sherlock. His expression was blank.

n F2C=CF2 → 1/n —{ F2C—CF2}n—

[O3SO-OSO3]2−⇌ 2 SO4•−

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's an organic polymer. PTFE, otherwise known as Teflon, is best known for its use in coating non-stick frying pans."

John's eyebrows kitted together. "Okay. I don't understand."

"Neither do I. In industrial applications, owing to its low friction, PTFE is used for applications where sliding action of parts is needed. Plain bearings, gears, slide plates, etcetera. Mr. Roselander had nothing to do with industrial operations of any kind. Perhaps we're looking for some kind of engineer. Just a thought."

John looked up at him from the table, his expression was weary. "I've figured out what this says about a half an hour ago but I don't understand it." He lifted the translated cipher.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and checked his watch. "You were early." He muttered.

"Hmm?" John asked, his eyebrows pulling together.

"It was supposed to take you until about five minutes ago to get the whole thing."

"You were timing me… never mind. I finished when I did because I recognized what it said. Doesn't mean I understand it. It's a quote, actually. From a Shakespeare play. Much Ado About Nothing, specifically. I only know because I watched it with Heather half a dozen times."

"That was the redheaded one who broke in and attacked me in the shower with a tennis racket?" Sherlock asked, lifting an eyebrow.

John chuckled, remembering. "Ah, yeah."

Sherlock stared down at the translation before him.

_Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and, to conclude, they are lying knaves."_

"I don't understand." Sherlock muttered.

"Maybe he was crazy after all." John suggested.

Sherlock didn't look satisfied. "I've obtained his medical records. He was not crazy. Review this by tomorrow."

He tossed a thick packet down on the table.

"Right, okay." John said, picking it up.

"There were also police reports. Before his wife's death she filed two incident reports with the police. She believed she was being stalked."

"Do you have the case report on her disappearance?"

"Ezell won't let me near it. I have to go off the little that Lestrade was able to get..."

"That frustrates you."

"Obviously." Sherlock snapped. "It was very clear that Mr. Roselander believed that his entire family is being targeted. He told his nurse at the institution that

this was just the beginning. He was worried about his sister being next."

"Has anyone talked to them?"

"Yes. They are skeptical that they are personally in any kind of danger but are also not opposed to us investigating."

"They want us involved?"

"The sister does. Lestrade spoke to her over the phone. Apparently the rest of the family is against enlisting the help of a private detective. They had previously discouraged her from pursuing further investigation."

"Happy to have a decent case?"

"It's been a terribly slow month." Sherlock drawled.

John smiled, shaking his head.

"They'll be reading Thomas Johnathan's will day after tomorrow, in the evening at Roselander Mansion in South Brondette. I've got the address and the gate entrance code." Sherlock muttered. "He's made some recent changes to his last Will and Testament. Very recent."

"Sorry, could you possibly find _that_ out?" John asked, frowning.

"I called in a favor. Actually, there's something I've been meaning to tell you for a while now. I apologize for not doing it sooner, but total secrecy _was_ critical. Still is, but not life threateningly now."

Sherlock paused, considering his words carefully. "The attorney who wrote his will is married to a national celebrity. I've got a friend who knows this celebrity."

John stared at him, confused.

"Well, she knows what he likes." Sherlock finished, his eyes twinkling.

John's eyes narrowed. His head tilted to the right. He stared at Sherlock for a long moment. "No. No, you can not _possibly_ mean_Irene Adler?"

Sherlock gave the slightest nod. "I do."

John looked horrified. "_How_, Sherlock?"

"The details are irrelevant."

John sighed. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You know you _cannot_ trust her."

"The Woman taught me herself. You don't have to trust who you can blackmail."

"Not a good habit to be in."

"Not one I use on a frequent and continuing basis. As it is, she's the only one who I could extract that kind of information from and she owes me quite a few favors. I've got a level of surveillance on her that Mycroft would be jealous of." Sherlock assured. He could see the discomfort on John's face from the thought.

"So, what, we're just going to barge right in there and listen to them read the will?" John asked, confused.

"Lestrade has given me permission to investigate and the sister told Lestrade to send me over next Tuesday. However, with the information I've gathered on the family and the whole situation it would be stupid not to expect something to happen at the reading, John."

"I don't think they'll find us popping in very funny Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored him. "A woman disappeared, her husband was killed or killed himself, the body was moved post-mortem, a note hidden in his shoe. He modified his will right before his death. It isn't even my birthday." Sherlock grinned, sweeping across the room with a stack of paperwork.

John huffed a laugh.

"What?" Sherlock asked, halting as he set the paperwork down.

"Mycroft."

Sherlock made a disgusted face. "What about him?"

"He said at the time he was completely sure the Woman was dead and it would take Sherlock Holmes to fool him."

Now Sherlock laughed deeply, turning to pour himself a cup of tea.


	2. Chapter 2 - Reichenbach Falls

**Chapter 2**

**Reichenbach Falls**

The following morning John awoke to find a young man standing in their living room, trying in vain to get Sherlock's attention.

"Mr. Holmes? Excuse me?" the man said, taking a step closer and waving at him. Sherlock sat beside the fire, texting absently.

"Do you have a light?" Sherlock asked without looking up. John noticed a cigarette on the table beside him and rolled his eyes.

"I_ sure. Think so." The kid said. He dug through his pockets. He removed a loaded key ring and tossed it down on the table to make room for his search. Sherlock's eyes swept over it, cataloging information. His eyes narrowed.

"Morning." John said, passing around the young man to get to the kitchen.

"Here it is_ oh hello. Are you Doctor Watson?" he tossed Sherlock a book of matches.

"Yes, hello." John said, moving past him with a steaming cup. He seated himself across from Sherlock, who had lit the cigarette. He took a long drag.

"What's gotten into you, eh?" John asked, glancing between Sherlock and the man.

"Needed something to occupy my morning. Couldn't take the silence. Where have you been?"

"Sleeping."

"Where are you going?"

"Work, soon."

"Dull. You should stay here today."

"Sherlock, we've talked about this_"

"Excuse me?" The man asked, sitting in the chair between them.

"This is Gerald." Sherlock said, gesturing to the man. "I needed something small to fill my time until tomorrow. He's recently been getting stalked and sexually harassed by a number of highly attractive women."

John's eyebrows pulled together, he smiled slightly. "Problem?"

Sherlock shrugged, gesturing to the man. "Look at him."

Gerald frowned. He was a scruffy, slightly overweight man in his mid-twenties with small eyes, a crooked smile, a patchy beard and hands that were large, rough and dirty.

_Goofy bloke._ John thought, eyeing him.

"Right, okay."

Sherlock nodded. "The women have been approaching him with obviously immoral intentions."

"Don't see what's so bad about that." John said. "If you don't need me, I'm gonna have a shower then." He got to his feet and headed for the bathroom. He washed quickly and readied himself for work. When he ventured out into the front room of the flat he saw that Sherlock was still glued to his phone.

He was texting swiftly as the kid talked.

"_and I got married this last June."

"I know, June twenty first."

"How do you know _that_?"

Sherlock glanced up at John, who raised an eyebrow. Gerald looked frustrated, which from John's point of view was understandable. He didn't need to have been there for the conversation to know that Sherlock had most liked offended, antagonized and irritated the man.

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair.

"I can see by the grease on your hands you're a mechanic. You take your wedding ring off while you're working and clip it to your car keys. You set your keys on the counter when you were searching your pockets for your lighter. The date is on the inside of the ring. I also know that your wife comes from a family of significant wealth. You have two different car keys on that ring. One if for your car, the Honda. The other is for the new model Prius. Her car. The balance of probability relating to her gender and age is that she did not buy the car herself. Her parents bought her the car. Any parents who buy their twenty year old daughter a nearly new vehicle are obviously very well off. You're obviously not. They don't like you and they never have. Actually, to be more precise, they hate you. That was easy to see because there were no photographs of you both as a couple in the house despite the two years you've been together. Not even your wedding photos."

"_How! _How could you know__"_ Gerald sputtered.

"What do you think I've been doing all this time?" Sherlock snapped, holding up his phone. There was a photograph of a spotless, posh, well decorated living room. "Homeless network. Had one of them pop in and have a look. No one is trying to kill you. Her parents are paying extremely attractive women to try and lure you into a compromising situation where they will have an undercover photographer waiting to snap a picture. A picture that if shown to your sweet, innocent, homely wife would cause her to leave you. Or at least cause significant damage to your relationship."

"Oh my god!" The man cried, horrified.

John chuckled until he saw the man's expression. "Ahh, sorry." He said, shrugging into his coat.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Case solved, and I didn't even have to get up. Don't worry, it's nothing to be overly concerned about."

"I'm off, see you later." John said, waving as he walked out the door.

He heard the man's voice as he padded downstairs.

"_But what am I supposed to do!"_

John smiled, shaking his head. He stepped out to the street corner and threw up a hand, trying to signal a taxi. The day was grey, with a dense fog that blanketed the city.

In the afternoon, John's old girlfriend Sarah came in and they got lunch. A few months prior she had transferred to another office, so John was happy for the chance to catch up with her. They sat in a small Italian café a few blocks down the street, working their way through a plate of noodles and chatting. Sarah made the comment that she was glad that John was still in once piece, leading the life he lead.

_He had to come up eventually._ John thought. They had talked about everything under the sun and finally the subject had come to Sherlock.

"You're still living in with him then?" Sarah asked.

John nodded. "Well, yes."

"And how are you two?" Sarah stirred honey into her cup of tea.

John laughed at the way she said it, shaking his head. "Sherlock is restless. Tomorrow we're going out on a case but today he's got nothing. He can't take the anticipation. He's solving cases that he normally wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole just to pass the time."

"Do you manage to feed him up often enough or does he still refuse to eat?" Sarah asked. John looked surprised.

"He eats more when I get on him about it. Sometimes. Have I told you that before?" John asked, trying to remember.

"John, you've told me just about everything about him at one time or another." Sarah said, smiling as she sipped off her cup.

"Have I?" John asked, surprised.

"The whole time I was seeing you. Either you wouldn't shut up about him or you wouldn't say a word about him at all."

John made a face. "I didn't realize."

"You could imagine my frustration."

"I could see that getting old." He felt his face grow hot.

Sarah shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I'm happy for you."

"Sarah, you know it's never been like that between us right?" John said.

Sarah laughed. John tilted his chin down and raised his eyebrows. Her face got serious.

"You've never?"

John shook his head. "No."

"Serious?"

John nodded.

Sarah looked him in the eyes. "Does he know how you feel about him?"

John sighed, meeting her gaze without flinching. There was a long awkward pause. "No." He said finally, breaking eye contact to look at the table.

Sarah pursed her lips. "John_ did you just come out to me?"

John groaned. "I don't know, maybe."

Sarah nodded. "That's better than what you were saying six months ago."

"What was that?"

"That you're not gay."

John made a face. Difficult didn't begin to describe how he felt about talking about it but he'd gone this far already. Since John had come to terms with the feelings he'd felt stuck. Trapped between two impossible scenarios. Either he'd get over it, or somehow it would end up going somewhere. John didn't see either of those things happening.

He struggled to put it into words. "I'm _not_ gay. I find women attractive. I don't find men attractive." He paused, preparing himself to force the words out. "With one exception."

Sarah was smiling.

"Oh, come on don't. Don't do that." John said, aggravated. Sarah pursed her lips, trying to cover the smile.

"Sorry." She said, putting a hand over her mouth. "I'm not trying to laugh. It's just sweet."

"No, no. No it's not. It's_ hard."

"When did you realize?"

John looked thoughtful. After a deep breath he said, "A while ago when we were on this case. It was dark, we were on the side of a mountain. Sherlock and I had gotten separated. I was stuck fighting this gangster bloke on the edge of a cliff. Or, what looked like a cliff. Sherlock showed up in a _Bentley_ of all things. He'd nicked it. He was running towards us to help me and my foot slipped. Me and the other bloke went over the edge backwards. Sherlock didn't even hesitate. He jumped after us. God knows what could have been over that ledge. Thankfully, it was just a steep hill that panned out into a flat area of woods. It was a bad tumble, but we were fine. After I had my bearings I looked at him. I was _so_ angry. I couldn't believe he'd done that. He could have died. I wanted to shout at him. He was just looking at me with this face. He looked actually upset. It was so human of him. Then it just hit me, all at once. I just realized, I've never felt anything like how I feel for him in my life and I don't think I ever will with anyone else_. If you repeat any of this to anyone__"

Sarah put up her hands. "No, no of course not. John, it helps to get it out."

"That's what Ella says."

"You've talked to her about this?"

John shook his head. "Not at all. I haven't talked to anyone about it. You're the first. I think it's just easier because we_ you know. Had something before."

Sarah nodded. "You going to tell him?"

"No. Not at all." John said, shaking his head vigorously.

"You don't think there's a chance_"

John huffed a sarcastic laugh. "No."

Sarah frowned. "Are you happy like that?"

John made a face. "I don't know where I would begin if I did try to tell him. Or_ if_ he felt the same, I wouldn't know where to begin with that either. I don't know. Mostly I try not to think about it."

Night was falling as the cab pulled up to the curb outside of 221B, Baker Street. John stepped up to the door, wondering what Sherlock had been doing all day. He'd only texted John a few times since he'd been gone. To tell him he was bored, then hungry, then apologizing for something he'd broken during an experiment. It had been a few hours and he'd never replied to John's last text. _It's fine, just clean up the glass please. DO NOT have Mrs. H do it. –J_

John walked through the front door carrying a bag of groceries. Mrs. Hudson came padding down the stairs. She stopped at the bottom and shook her head at John, lips pursed.

"What did he do?" John asked, smiling.

"That man, the _mess_ he makes."

"I told him not to let you pick it up." John breathed.

"He didn't let me. I was only going to sweep the glass. It's a safety hazard dear. I wasn't going to clean it all. I'm not your housekeeper. Sherlock hopped up to get it done when he saw your cab pulling up."

John's mouth twitched. "Okay. Well that's good."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "You're the only person he'll bend for, just a little bit."

John laughed, shaking his head and moved past her to head up stairs. He walked in to find Sherlock under the table with a scrub brush. There was a large spatter of sticky amber substance that had spattered across the table and dripped on the ground. A broom and dustpan sitting beside the garbage told John that Sherlock had indeed cleaned up the glass.

"Hullo." John said, carrying the groceries to the fridge. Sherlock grunted in reply, scrubbing at the amber goo.

"It's solidifying." He muttered, attacking it.

"Amazing." John muttered, sarcasm thick in his tone.

In the time that John had been gone Sherlock had solved another one of Lestrade's other cases without leaving the flat. Now he was waiting on a text confirmation that he'd been right.

"How was your lunch?" Sherlock asked when John had seated himself on the sofa, laptop open in his lap.

"Good."

"How is Sarah?"

John felt his face reddening. "She's fine. She hopes you're doing well. How did you know I saw her today?"

"Every time she sees you with you she fixes your hair in the back so that it ends in a neat little curl."

John looked bemused, reaching back to touch the back of his head. "_That's_ what she's doing when she does that. I thought she was just tugging it to irritate me."

Sherlock smirked.

John's stomach growled.

"I've ordered take away." Sherlock said, waving a hand lazily towards the kitchen.

"Excellent. Sometimes you're amazing."

Sherlock glanced at John. "I thought I was always amazing. You voice that opinion often enough."

"Just now I meant amazing not in the 'that was really clever' way but in the 'you can sometimes be a decent flatmate' way. When you're not being an arrogant dick, mind."

The evening passed effortlessly. It was almost midnight on the frosty fall night and they sat together, side by side waiting on the message from Lestrade. At least, Sherlock was. John was typing his blog, deeply invested in portraying one of their recent cases.

Sherlock hadn't slept in almost two days and wasn't going to until Lestrade texted to confirm that he had been right about the evidence and the murder.

Sherlock sat quietly, lost in thought as John wrote. He only moved once in an hour, just to wiggle his frozen bare feet under John's leg for warmth. John didn't bother trying to tell him to put on socks anymore.

He wrote.

_The Case of the Disappearing Jacobs:_

_Here's an odd one. Last week Sherlock and I had a case involving the bizarre disappearance of a man, a parrot and a horse. The only thing that had linked the disappearances was that all three of them were named Jacob Myers. At first, Sherlock hadn't been interested. The only disappearances reported to the police were the man and then a few days later, the horse. Then three days after that a really upset woman showed up at the flat to ask Sherlock to help find her parrot. Sherlock hadn't been interested until she'd mentioned the Parrot's name and he made the connection…_

John had gone on to explain the details of the case, getting lost in the act of writing. When he glanced back over, Sherlock had his phone in his lap and his eyes were closed. John reached out carefully, picked up the phone and looked at the most recent text.

_You were right, he was allergic. Brought him in an hour ago. Thank you. -GL 10:34PM_

John smiled and set the phone on the table. Sherlock was breathing evenly. His looked peaceful. John couldn't help but smile, just a little, just for a moment.

Sometimes, he caught himself almost staring at his friend and did his best to look away before Sherlock noticed. Now, he stared freely, somewhat guiltily, memorizing his features. Sherlock had long eyelashes, dark curls, high sharp cheekbones and a soft, delicate mouth. At least, it was soft and delicate right then. Awake, it cut like a razor constantly. Asleep, the man looked downright gentle.

John struggled at times like these. Everything about it was hard. Everything was complicated when it came to the kind of attraction that built up slowly and quietly, sneaking up on you like a killer in the dark. John couldn't place when it had begun but he remembered the exact moment when his heart had made itself known in a way that his logical mind could no longer ignore. John had realized at that very terrible, inconvenient moment that he was completely, horribly in love. The thought scared him and he did he best not to think about it. He found himself feeling very self-conscious when he felt himself being drawn to Sherlock like a positive charge reaching for a negative one.

It was early morning and the blackness of the icy, clear London sky was fading to a deep, pre-dawn blue. The wind was sharp and off in the distance clouds were rolling in for an upcoming storm. John Watson lay alone under a pile of blankets, staring out at the impending daylight. He'd woken from a dream with a start and slowly the heavy cover of sleep faded enough that he decided to get up. He wondered if Sherlock was up yet. John rolled over, flipped the covers off and put on his robe. Padding downstairs he heard movement coming from the kitchen and smiled.

Sherlock dipped the tea pot with grace, letting the boiling water fall from high into his cup. When he heard footsteps coming down the stairs he automatically reached into the cupboard to draw out another. A moment later he looked up to see John walking up beside him.

John's face went from tired to slack jawed in surprise. Sherlock was half dressed, standing shirtless in perfectly fit black trousers. Sherlock handed him the first cup that he'd poured and reached for the sugar to sweeten his own. John was barefoot, his hair was ruffled from sleep and he murmured his thanks, reaching for the cup without quite making eye contact with Sherlock.

Lately, there had been times when John failed to meet his flatmate's eyes. Early in the morning, when the comfort of sleep was still strong in his body it became difficult. It made him want to be close to someone, to wrap his arms around a person he cared about and fall back into the deep cavern of tranquility. When John felt like this, he found that it was hard to look at Sherlock directly.

Sherlock smiled down at him, taking in the appearance of John when he first woke up. It was the side of John that he saw the least, since they rarely rose at the same time. Early morning John was so different from John when he was going to work, going on a date, going on a case or going to the pub. John when he first woke up was indescribable, in Sherlock's mind. He couldn't place it, but he enjoyed seeing the man tired, yawning and ruffled from sleep.

John snagged his tea, murmured his thanks and retreated to the chair beside the fire. He opened the news paper and began scanning through articles. "Time is it?" he mumbled as Sherlock sat across from him. He'd put on his deep purple silk button up and was lounging like a cat across the armchair.

"Seven. We're leaving in an hour." He tapped his fingers restlessly.

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"The address is number 224 Reichenbach Falls Drive."


	3. Chapter 3 - The Reading

**Chapter 3**

**The Reading**

The train rocketed across the countryside. John and Sherlock were seated in the upper story first class cabin, idly drinking coffee. John wondered why Sherlock would purchase first class tickets for a two hour ride, but such was Sherlock and he didn't question it. They were headed for South East Brondette, a rural town at the top of a vast, green canyon. Through the canyon flowed a wide, wild river.

The family owned the fancy gift and convenience store at the top of the canyon beside the waterfall. It was one of the most popular top of the mountain tourist attractions; the lovely Reichenbach Falls, hiking trails and the homely log cabin store beside it. Up the hill sat Roselander Mansion. The residents had a perfect view of the waterfall and the shop, less than a mile away. The Reichenbach Outpost, as it was called, had been the last place Maxime had been seen. She had purchased a water bottle early in the morning before her routine walk through the trails. Directly beside the store was a large gravel parking lot where people left their vehicles to hike. Sherlock had been searching photographs of the place on his phone and showing John along the way.

The train's conductor made another round through the cabins. He was a tall, older gentleman with curly brown hair, a thin, expressionless face, paunchy stomach and enormous hands. He wore a brown wool coat over his white shirt and black trousers. The whistle he blew as he ushered in passengers was laughably small compared to the rest of him.

"He's made trips through in between every stop, even when no one new has gotten on the train."

"Checking to make sure he's punched every ticket, thrown away the remaining garbage, ensuring that nothing troublesome is happening. A good conductor makes frequent rounds through his cars." Sherlock muttered absently to John as the conductor passed them with a nod, heading for the stairs to the lower cabs of the train.

"Hm. He's realized there's a stowaway hiding in the bathroom but he's not doing anything about it." Sherlock noticed, glancing up from his phone.

John glanced at the restroom door. He hadn't noticed until now, but the door _had_ been closed since they'd gotten on.

"Seriously?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"How do you know he knows?"

"He slipped a piece of paper in the crack of the door. With every round though the cars he checks it and it's still there. Meaning, someone has been occupying the space for quite a long time."

John craned his neck. Sure enough, a little white square was stuck in the crack. It would fall out should anyone open it.

"I'll be dammed." John muttered.

"Mmm, there's a weather alert out. Clean out the drains and sandbag your doorsteps, a flood is coming. So inconvenient with an occupation that requires you to be out and about. The storm should last throughout the week." Sherlock said, staring at his phone again.

"You should text Mrs.H. Make sure she knows." John said, taking a sip off his cup.

"She listens to the radio while tends her houseplants in the morning. The broadcast has just gone out. She knows."

"Just to make sure." John repeated.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

_Large storm on the way. Clean out the storm drains to prevent flooding. –SH_

John heard Mrs. Hudson's voice go through his head. _You're the only person he'll bend for, just a little._

Their destination was the stop at North Brondette, half way up the canyon. It was a fairly urban area. Sherlock lead John out of the station and onto a shuttle that would take them up to the rural side of Brondette inside the mountain range. When Sherlock had stopped at the counter to get shuttle passes he was handed them without having to utter a single word. He stared at the cashier, whose expression was irritated.

"I'll never understand how you do that." John said when they were seated.

"I didn't." Sherlock murmured.

"Sorry?" John asked, not quite hearing him.

"Nothing."

"You've got a plan?" John asked, staring out the window over the cliff. The road was narrow and was becoming more thickly blanketed by fog the farther up they got.

"We're going to sit quietly in the back for a while, observe and if need be make the announcement that a minor investigation is pending. If we know where the inheritance went it _could_ help us find a motive. Thomas Johnathan Roselander was a very wealthy man."

"Works for me." John said, leaning back in his seat.

Sherlock's eyes darted to John's face. "You read the police reports and the medical records I managed to obtain?"

"Yes." John replied evenly. He'd gone over them before they left the house. There had been two incident reports filed by Mrs. Roselander in the weeks before her disappearance. After she disappeared Mr. Roselander hounded his family members until they had him committed to the institution. He seemed to think that he was bound to some kind of time limit relating to his wife's disappearance. He refused to interact with the police at all. At least, any more than was legally necessary. At one point he had said that it was 'entirely up to him' to get his wife back and called the police a bunch of useless sods.

"The family thought that Mr. Roselander had lost his mind. Do you think so?"

John shook his head. "He seemed mostly sane, from what I read. His thoughts were clear, he was coherent and able to communicate."

"And?"

"He was under the impression that the family knew what happened to his wife and thought that they were somehow at fault for her disappearance."

"Mmm, half right." Sherlock said, staring out the window. "He did not think that the family knew what happened to his wife. He _was_ under the impression that her disappearance was their fault. He believed that they had a secret and that revealing it would somehow bring his wife back."

"He said he was on a time limit."

"That time limit obviously ran out, otherwise he wouldn't have killed himself. He had a reason to believe she was dead when he killed himself."

John was looking at his phone. "You'd better solve it before the evening is over Sherlock, or we'll be stuck here. They're going to cease public transportation coming in and out of the pass during the storm. Mud slides, loose boulders and all that."

"There's a hotel owned by our victim's oldest brother in law. His name is Scott B. Hawthorn. That's where we'll be staying if necessary."

"I'd have packed an overnight bag if I knew that. You could have said something." John said, irritated.

"Mmm."

John sighed. "So, the younger brother in law owns the store. The oldest owns the hotel."

"Yes and the middle brother is the family attorney. His name is Daniel. The youngest is Michael."

"I see."

Sherlock looked at him, seeming to come out of his closed off dome of thought. "Mr. Roselander's younger sister Elaine is married to Michael. Michael is the only brother who is still married and this is his second marriage. The attorney brother, Daniel, represented him in his divorce court case and won him custody of the two children from his prior marriage. From what I gathered, Michael slandered his ex-wife's reputation horribly and Daniel backed it up. Daniel was married, but cheated on his wife. They share the children. He is now dating a woman named Rachel. She is the daughter of an old family friend. He has four children of his own, she has two of her own and she has sisters who are all close to the family."

"Hang on, this is a lot of information." John muttered, scribbling notes. "Three brothers. Old wives, new wives, girlfriends_ Lots of kids_"

"The eldest, Scott, has never been married, however he does have one illegitimate daughter who lives in Brussels. Elaine and Michael allowed their parents to live in Roselander Mansion. Technically Mr. and Mrs. Roselander owned it, but they actually lived in a small farmhouse down the way. The Roselander estate was too big for them. Always full of family. A constant gathering. Not peaceful. Also, Maxime couldn't stand her sister in law's mother in law. To my understanding the older generations of the Hawthorns were mostly anti-Semites."

"Was Maxime Roselander Jewish?" John asked, blinking down as his hastily scribbled notes.

"No. Neither was Mr. Roselander. I've crossed that out as a possible motive."

"Okay." John nodded. He was scribbling fast.

"The home was built in the early nineteen hundreds. It is used primarily as the family's vacation home and has been in Mr. Roselander's family for generations. Since he has no children and no brothers it will most certainly be left to his sister. It is eighteen thousand square feet on three acres of property. Crafted in the Traditional European style. It has seven bedrooms, seven full baths, four half baths, five fireplaces, a formal dining room with a dome ceiling, a formal living room with a ceiling that's at least 20 feet tall, an enormous kitchen, several other living rooms, a library, a study and offices on all three floors."

John whistled and Sherlock continued. "Downstairs, there is a media room with a ridiculously large TV screen. It's currently set up with ten chairs and one lounge bed. There also is an exercise room with a mini-kitchen next to it and a billiard room that has two pool tables, three dart boards, several smaller televisions, a bar and a large card table. A spiral staircase next to the media room leads up to the kitchen. Off the kitchen is a large pantry with a walk-in cooler and a laundry room. A dumbwaiter near the laundry room serves all three floors."

"Any secret passages?" John asked.

"Several were initially build into the home. Made for servants to go about the house unseen. It has since been remodeled three times and whether or not the passages remain open is unknown. We may have to explore." Sherlock looked happy.

"Anything else?"

"The house also has a wine cellar, a three-vehicle garage on the main level and a two-vehicle garage on the bottom floor."

"Jesus."

"Thomas Johnathan Roselander was the heir to his family's fortune. They collected art and historical heirlooms and sold them to the highest bidder. They had the best team of agents in the world doing their bidding, selling and trading; making them a fortune. He and his wife were retired off of the family inheritance. They spent the last ten years traveling the world, leaving the estate in the care of his sister, Elaine and her family."

"You think the sister was bent about not getting the house when their parents died?"

"Um, no. Not at all. She always _had _the house. Had control of it anyway. Mr. Roselander couldn't have cared less about that house. There is a popular little spot for camping, winter vacations, skiing just a few miles up the road. Also, small town square with an ice skating rink, a few bars, restaurants, ski lifts, two hotels. The small town feel is what makes this place such an ideal spot for rich tourists. They enjoy the feeling of being isolated."

"How much of this town is owned by these two families?"

"The Hawthorns and the Roselanders have owned this town for decades. The families used to feud but let it go when Elaine and Michael married."

"No wonder Tommy John's suicide note was a Shakespeare quote."

Sherlock scoffed and shook his head. "Much Ado About Nothing is completely different from Romeo and Juliet."

"The storylines? I know that."

"No, the outcomes. One is a comedy and one is a tragedy. Why would Tommy John's suicide note be a line from a comedy?"

"Perhaps it was ironic in some way? Maybe it just fit the situation?"

"You would think the outcome of the story in itself would matter as much as the chosen text." Sherlock muttered, lifting an eyebrow.

"Not everybody has two or three motives for everything they do, Sherlock. Most people only have one." John replied, smiling.

Sherlock grew quiet, staring out the window for the rest of the drive. The sun was getting low in the sky and a moderate downpour had begun coming down as they rolled slowly though the main square of Old Brondette. Apparently a brand new live-production theater had been built beside the outdoor ice skating rink.

The shuttle ride ended at the Hawthorn Heights Hotel. John was phoning a cab as Sherlock checked a tourist event pamphlet. To his disappointment Much Ado About Nothing was not listed.

"You were hoping it was playing so that we could find which actor the quote belonged to." John guessed.

Sherlock tossed the pamphlet in a nearby trash bin. "It was a long shot anyways."

It was dusk by the time their cab rolled up to the front gate of Roselander Mansion, a half a mile away from the Reichenbach Falls. It was on three acres of property. Sherlock watched the cabbie punch in the gate code. Rain had started down hard and Sherlock noticed that eleven vehicles were parked in the driveway.

They ascended the wide marble steps, passing under smooth stone pillars and onto the veranda. Sherlock strode up to the door, brimming with confidence. He hammered the brass knocker. When no one answered Sherlock leaned in, pressing his ear to the door. He heard the latch click on the other side and stepped back as the heavy oak swung open wide.

"Come in, come in please." Said the thin, middle aged gentleman with oval spectacles. He was ushering them through the door.

Sherlock and John stepped through and Sherlock reached out a hand. "I don't believe we've met," he said, smiling.

The gentleman grasped his hand. "Scott Hawthorn. A brother in law of Elaine's. You are?"

"Sherlock Holmes, this is my friend Doctor John Wats_ is everything alright?"

The man had gone slack jawed upon hearing the name. "You weren't supposed to come until Tuesday." He said, frowning.

"Oh, dear." Sherlock said, a look of concern on his face. "I was clearly told that my presence was urgently required here today. Are you very sure it was Tuesday? We've come all the way from London."

Scott glanced around, unsure. "I_ I'll have to check. It's rather bad timing I'm afraid… This is Mr. Roselander's post memorial reading. I am not sure how well your presence will be received."

"Ah, I understand. When is the reading supposed to begin?"

"In about five minutes." Scott said, glancing at his watch.

"I'd hate to interrupt. How about if Doctor Watson and I stand in the back of the room quietly and we address this mix up afterwards?"

Scott Hawthorn looked at Sherlock for a long moment. His eyes were searching. "I think that would be best." He sighed. "If you'll just follow me..."

"Excellent." Sherlock said, starting after him. He glanced at John, who smiled.

"Never ceases to amaze me the things you get away with." He muttered.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up. "People often underestimate the things they can get away with. Nobody realizes how strong the fear of offending is comparatively."

"No idea what you mean."

"It's fine."

Scott led them into the entryway and hung their coats on a brass rack next to the door. He toured them through a lounge, down a marble hallway and then descended a flight of shining spiral stairs. The stairs ended in a smaller hallway. Two glossy, hard wood doors lead them into a study. Bookshelves lined the walls. On one end of the room were two double doors that lead to the media room. On the other side matching double doors lead to the exercise room. In the center of the study, directly across from the stairs was a massive wooden desk with a flat screen computer on it. The walls were panels of rich cherry wood, fit together perfectly. The carpet was a deep forest green. Sherlock stared at the one space of wall that wasn't occupied by a book shelf, directly behind the desk. It made for an awkward space in the room.

"If you will both please stay in the back of the room and not draw attention." Scott muttered as he led them through the side door. The media room was dimly lit and John and Sherlock slipped easily into the two seats in the back corner of the room without drawing any attention.

The television was displaying a slideshow of the deceased Mr. Roselander and his wife. In life, Thomas Johnathan Roselander had been devilishly handsome, with a bright smile, shining eyes and bold cheekbones. Maxime Bernadine Roselander had been a ray of golden sunshine. Always smiling, with wavy blonde hair, a petite figure and dazzling green eyes. In every picture the couple looked charmed, happy and alive. It felt surreal. Three or four pictures would pass followed by a small video clip of the couple. John could hear one or more people who were sniffling. Others looked bored. A tall, thick boned woman with neatly pinned up blonde hair sat at the front of the room. Tears dripped down her face.

"Elaine Hawthorn, Mr. Roselander's younger sister. They were very fond of each other." Sherlock leaned in and whispered to John, seeing where he had been looking. The hair on the back of John's neck stood up when he felt the warmth tickle his ear.

The room was cold. John rubbed his hands together. He glanced to his left. Two people had turned in their seats and were looking at him and Sherlock. One man had a perfectly bald head, a neatly trimmed beard and a burnt sienna colored suit. The other was a thin, middle aged woman with flowing black hair. Both stared at Sherlock and John unabashedly. John smiled quickly and looked away. Sherlock stared back, refusing to break eye contact first.

"Daniel Hawthorn and his girlfriend Rachel." Sherlock whispered again.

"The attorney?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. "And Elaine's husband, Michael is over there." Sherlock lifted a finger to point at a tall, potbellied, bearded man with auburn hair that stood near the front of the room. He shifted his weight, looked around the room once and then took a seat.

John did a quick head count. "There are eleven cars here. I thought there would be more people. Aside from us there's only seven."

"I don't know who the other two are. Hawthorn cousins, I believe? From the looks of it?"

Another couple sat in the chairs two rows in front of John and Sherlock. The man had close cropped salt and pepper hair and a beak nose like the other Hawthorn men. The woman was considerably younger than he, with a thick pony tail of lush brown curls and a petite figure.

"Can't tell. Maybe." John replied.

With that, the slideshow ended and the lights flickered on. The bald man with the beard, who John remembered to be Daniel Hawthorn, walked to the front of his room.

He took a breath, smiled lightly and began speaking to the whole room. "I loved the honeymoon photographs. Especially the one in the Persian rug market. Very nicely put together Elaine." He glanced at the blonde woman, who smiled weakly and nodded.

"Scott helped." She said.

A long rumble of thunder boomed outside.

"Storm is upon us." Sherlock murmured.

"Exactly three weeks ago today Tommy came to me and requested that his Will be altered and sealed, only to be opened and read in the event of his death. I offered to alter it myself because I had created his previous will. Oddly, he refused me. He requested that I put him in touch with someone else. It was very unlike him. So, just like the rest of you, I have no idea what this letter may or may not contain. All I know is that the man who lived to create this last Will and Testament was not himself when he wrote it. I made the effort to argue that he was not of sound mind when it was created but my appeal to resurrect the previous copy was overridden. I just wanted it to be known."

"Noted." Scott said, taking a seat in the front of the room.

Daniel Hawthorn began the reading. "I Thomas Johnathan Roselander, an adult residing at number 220 Reichenbach Falls Drive, Brondette South East, being of sound mind, declare this to be my Last will and Testament. I revoke all wills and codicils previously made by me." He cleared his throat again. "Article one. I appoint Daniel Hawthorn as my Personal Representative to administer this Will and ask that he be permitted to serve without Court supervision and without posting bond. If Daniel Hawthorn is unwilling or unable_"

"Dull." Sherlock muttered.

"Shut up, that's a bit disrespectful." John whispered, nudging him with an elbow.

"It's a big room, they're not going to hear. Most likely."

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock glanced down at him. John quickly disguised his amusement as a scowl and gave Sherlock a light kick.

Specific items were devised, bequeathed and given to the adults. A few family members shed tears.

"Looks like the only people who are honestly grieving here is the oldest brother Scott, the victim's sister Elaine and the couple over there. Damon and Sara? Is that what they were called? Daniel, Rachel and Michael all seem like they couldn't care less about him." John said under his breath.

"Mr. Roselander had no living relatives other than Elaine. From what I've gathered, Mr. and Mrs. Roselander didn't have many friends. They lived for each other completely. It stands to reason that the other Hawthorns are simply here to fill space."

"Similar to us." John shrugged.

"I believe we invited here for more than just to fill space, John."

"Hardly. We weren't even supposed to be here until Tuesday."

"I disagree. Somebody knew we were coming tonight."

John eyed him strangely. "How do you figure?"

Sherlock smiled. "The train tickets and a first class car had been paid and put under my name. I didn't purchase them. Then, the clerk at the station gave me our pre-paid shuttle tickets without me saying a word. The cab that picked us up was not the one you called. I know because the number you called was for the Boxcar Service and the one that picked us up was Tedrow's Quick Ride. The cabbie knew the gate code and circled through the lot like he'd done it a hundred times. I didn't offer payment and he didn't ask for it. Obviously, we were invited here tonight." Sherlock revealed, staring around the room.

"Okay, by who?" John muttered, looking around.

"I don't know." Sherlock said slowly. "Someone who knows something's going to happen and wants it stopped, perhaps. Initially I had seven ideas. I've ruled out three. I just need time to test the other four…"

Sherlock looked up at Daniel, who was concluding the reading.

"My loved ones, may the grace of God keep you safe tonight. I apologize again for having haunted you all with my distraught presence throughout the last several weeks. I tried heartily to impose the seriousness of my business to you and in the meaningful end it was all in vain. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive my failure and I pray that my loved ones may continue living long and happy lives. Respectfully at peace, T. J. Roselander."

With that, the reading was over. Daniel had been given the two story home estate that Mr. and Mrs. Roselander had lived in, to his girlfriend Rachel's delight. Michael was pleased when mansion estate was bequeathed his wife, Elaine. He had jumped to feet when Daniel had made the announcement, overwhelmed by excitement. His mobile phone fell to the flood with a thud. Daniel went to the other side of the room and kissed his wife, who glared at him through her tears. When the oldest brother, Scott was given a collection of artwork that had belonged to Maxime, he nodded solemnly, pursing his lips. John saw him dab his eyes with a handkerchief. Mr. Roselander's favored cousin in law, Sara was given another piece of property. Her husband Damon seemed pleased.

"Well, glad that's over. Eh?" John glanced at Sherlock. His eyes were darting around the room furiously. The occupants had risen and were mingling. Some comforted others.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John asked, alarmed at the look of shock on Sherlock's face.

"They missed it. All of them missed it _completely_. So did _you_. Unbelievable."

"Sorry? I don't understand."

Sherlock shook his head, smiling slyly. "Each of them listened long enough to hear what they'd been given and then tuned out. Did you hear the end?"

"Erm, to be honest, I may have tuned out a bit also."

Sherlock repeated the last paragraph word for word. John frowned.

"It was subtle." Sherlock said. "Even the man reading it missed it. Idiot. That was a warning, John."


	4. Chapter 4 - Bruised Fruit

**CHAPTER 4**

**Bruised Fruit**

John turned to see Scott and Daniel Hawthorn approaching them.

"Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson; this is Daniel, my younger brother." Scott said, straightening his spectacles.

Daniel smiled and reached out to shake hands. "I heard there was a mix up. You were supposed to come out on Tuesday of next week to discuss what you've found."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, it _was_ supposed to be Tuesday. I remembered after we arrived. However, it's _brilliantly_ luck that I forgot in the first place and arrived when I did. I have reason to believe that someone, or everyone in this house may be in imminent peril."

Daniel blinked twice. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me. At the end of that Testament was a warning and every single one of you clods missed it. Clearly, Mr. Roselander was trying to inform all of you that there is a high possibility that someone here will be killed very soon."

"I beg your pardon!" Daniel snapped.

Scott raised his eyebrows. He didn't look convinced. "What makes you so certain?"

"My question exactly." Daniel said, crossing his arms.

Sherlock looked over Daniel from top to bottom. He spoke quietly. "I am certain of it the same way that I am certain you hide your smoking habit from your girlfriend because you fear upsetting her far more than you let your brothers believe. I am certain of it the same way that I am certain that your barber gives you a shave every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday morning. I am certain the same way I am certain that you lost feeling on the back of your left arm after your injury two years ago."

Scott looked at John, who shrugged.

Daniel stared at Sherlock, unmoving. Scott glanced at him from behind his spectacles. "Dan, certainly you are at least a little familiar with who Sherlock Holmes is and what he does? The man works wonders."

"I believe it would have been far more wondrous if _you_ had been the one being verbally dismantled, brother." Daniel said dryly.

"I have to say though, all of that was perfectly accurate. I am impressed. However, it would be helpful if you could bring to our attention the details of your concern?" Scott said, raising an eyebrow.

"Regrettably, I was sent here to inform you that though initially you were told that Mr. Roselander committed suicide it has come to light that there may have been outside complications that interfered in the natural order of events."

"Meaning what?" Daniel asked, furrowing his brow.

"Meaning that Mr. Roselander was transported, postmortem, from Brondette to London early that morning a few hours after his death_" Sherlock started.

"_He came home when he was released from the institution. He hung himself and someone moved him. We don't know who or why or even how for that matter since the pass was closed off from the snow at the time_" John continued.

"_And further, the dead man has alluded to your imminent peril in the ending line of his Will. He was trying to warn you all." Sherlock finished.

Daniel and Scott stared at John. "Seriously?" Daniel asked.

John nodded.

"Can't be…" Scott muttered, looking off to the side.

"Is there possibly some place we can speak more privately?" John asked, glancing around the room.

"Come on." Daniel said, turning away. He led them into the study and closed the door.

Scott walked to the bar and poured himself a drink. Outside, the storm raged.

"Obviously, it would be unwise for anyone to leave with the weather like this. Storms on this mountain are no joke." He muttered, dropping a piece of ice into his glass. "You might as well stay now that you're here and do what you need to do."

"That would be good." Sherlock replied evenly.

"Is there anything you require?" Scott asked.

"I had a bag sent over early this morning. Is it here?"

Scott looked surprised. "I haven't got a clue. I suppose if someone were to drop it off the maid would have put it away somewhere…"

"Take us to the closest bedroom that is not being occupied. It will most likely be there." Sherlock said.

"Sorry, no one knew you would be coming today so how could the maid have known to prepare a room for you?"

"On the contrary, someone did know we were coming. It would be bad manners for them not to have a room prepared for us."

"How do you figure?" Daniel asked, frowning.

"Show us to the closest bedroom?"

Daniel and Scott glanced at each other. Scott shrugged and Daniel looked annoyed.

"This way…" he said, leading them out of the study, past the spiral staircase and down a vast hallway. They stopped in front of a hand carved wooden door on the right with mother of pearl inlays. "This is the only room that is not being occupied."

The door was unlocked and to the Hawthorn brothers' surprise there was indeed a black duffle bag set out on the bed.

Sherlock looked smug. "If my bag has been left in a bedroom, someone's fluffed the pillows and the covers have been turned down then obviously _someone_ was anticipating our arrival. You ought to get in touch with the maid and find out who she took her instruction from this morning."

"The morning maid took orders written out for her and left by the evening maid."

"Call her." Sherlock insisted. "It would be helpful to know _who_ has welcomed our presence so thoroughly."

Scott reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin black phone. He dialed and held it to his ear, waiting. "Reception up here is terrible when the weather is _nice_… Just a moment…"

John checked his phone. "I haven't got reception." He muttered.

Scott looked up. "I haven't either. Go and ask Michael and Elaine if they know what's going on?" He said to Daniel, who nodded.

Scott looked at Sherlock. "Well then. I'll let you know if I'm able to get in touch with her. Dinner is going to be at seven, I assume you will join us?"

Sherlock nodded. "I intend to."

"How can you be so sure that the rest of us are in danger?"

"The police reports. He harassed all of you. You had him committed. That night he escaped and was discovered dead the following morning. He was also under the impression that his wife's disappearance was somehow _your_ fault. By _your_ I mean everyone in this house tonight. I'm terribly interested."

Scott's eyes turned ice cold as he leveled his gaze at Sherlock. "Let me assure you, Mr. Holmes. _Nobody_ in this family had anything to do with Maxime's disappearance." He hissed. "That woman was a treasure, everybody loves her deeply and would give anything for her to return."

"Same goes for Tommy." Daniel agreed, his forehead creasing.

Sherlock opened his mouth but Scott cut him off before he could begin to speak.

"Join us when the bell if you are so inclined." He snapped, turning away. Daniel followed. A moment later, the door slammed closed and John and Sherlock stood in the silence.

John glanced around the room and came to sit on the end of the bed. "Bit touchy, wasn't he?"

Sherlock smirked. "Sentiment. Did you notice what he was bequeathed in the reading? Everything given to him was something that Mrs. Roselander had owned. Mr. Roselander left him only items that had belonged to his wife. What does that tell you?"

"There may have been something going on between Mrs. Roselander and Mr. Hawthorn that Mr. Roselander knew about? Maybe that was his way of saying he knew about it?"

Sherlock unzipped the bag and began rummaging through it. "Can't jump to conclusions, but it's a possibility. Certainly, he cared about her more than he should have… Ah, thank you Mrs. Hudson..." Sherlock said, pulling his revolver out.

"Sherlock, what do you expect to happen tonight?" John asked, frowning.

"I'm not expecting, I am preparing." He said, pocketing it.

"Right. Okay."

"I had this bag sent about an hour after we left. Everything I requested Mrs. Hudson to pack is here. She's better than my mother."

"What? You're mum wouldn't have packed the gun?" John asked, looking around the room.

Sherlock sniggered. "She would have packed the gun and forgotten the shirt. Mrs. Hudson never forgets anything." He said. As he pulled out a white dress shirt to change into for dinner John saw something small and silver fall from it. John bent over to grab it out of the plush carpet.

He stared at it. A _tiny_ silver revolver, only as long as a ten pence. Sherlock plucked it out of his hand, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't ask her to pack _this_…" he muttered, pocketing it.

There was a knock at the door. John and Sherlock turned as it creaked open and in stepped Elaine Hawthorn. She had an oval face, with big blue eyes that were red from crying and perfectly pinned hair.

"Hi, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, striding forward with an outstretched hand. "I'm not sure why my brother in law didn't tell me you were here sooner. I saw you standing in the back but I couldn't see your face in the dim lighting. He just now told me that you were here."

"Not a problem." Sherlock stepped forward with an unearthly poise to shake her hand.

"You're Doctor Watson?" she asked, turning to face John.

"Yes, good to meet you."

"It was the two of you who discovered that my brother's body was moved?"

"Right." John replied.

"Would you mind if I had a word with you before dinner? Right now?" Her eyes darted around the room.

"Is everything alright? You seem worried." John said, frowning.

She glanced between John and Sherlock, shaking her head. "I'm not sure anything has been alright since Maxime disappeared. I am concerned right now though. I was close to Maxime. You've read the police reports?"

"We have."

"You know Maxime thought she was being stalked?"

"Yes." Sherlock's patience was always thin and John could hear when it began to slip.

"She told me that as well. When she told me I didn't really know what to tell her. I just said for her to be safe when she went out. Then she went out on the trails and didn't come back and I was cooking when Tommy called me. He had called the police when she'd been gone for five hours without checking in. He was made to wait until the next day to file a report. Then, a week later he came and told me he needed help. The search party had been called off at that point_" She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"You prattle. Get to the point." Sherlock said. Elaine ignored him and sat on the edge of the bed.

"_He said that he had to find proof of something but he wouldn't say what. He said that I had to go talk to Michael and ask him something. He said he tried to talk to him and he just couldn't and I had to do it because he loved me. He said it might bring Maxime back if I could find out for him and I said I would and I did but nothing happened. Thinking about it makes me sick. I don't handle stress well."

"Okay, what did he want you to find out?" John asked, taking down notes.

"He wanted me to ask Michael how he got Reichenbach Outpost, the store he owns. I asked Michael. He bought it from a man eight years ago. I told Tommy and he didn't believe me. He started crying and then he said he had to talk to the family doctor. He said it was his last hope."

"Who is the family doctor?" Sherlock asked, pacing the room.

She shook her head. "We haven't got one. Every single one of us has a different doctor. That's why I started to wonder if it had all just gotten to him. I thought it might be him saying he needed help." She got to her feet, went to the night stand and straightened the lampshade.

Sherlock glanced at John, who shrugged. "Why are you concerned _now_? What happened recently that has you worried?" he asked.

"First, very early yesterday morning I thought Michael came in our bedroom while I was in the shower. I heard him in there, getting into our drawer. When I got out of the shower I looked out the window and he was sitting in his car. He'd just pulled up. Then I thought it might have been the maid but she wasn't here yet. Then I thought I must have imagined it."

Elaine crossed her arms and shifted her weight between her sturdy black heels.

"Then, just a little while ago I believe that someone had come into the kitchen with me. Just before you two showed up, I was in the prepping for dinner and I went in the pantry and I was filling a basket with what I needed and I heard… Something."

"You're sure it wasn't someone else in the family?" John asked, scratching the back of his head.

"If it was, no one will admit it and I don't know why they wouldn't just tell me. I thought I must have imagined it again but now, just now, I noticed something. Now I know I didn't imagine it. Someone _was_ there." Elaine breathed.

Sherlock nodded. "How do you know that?"

She paused. "Because, Mr. Holmes. My fruit is bruised."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her. John crossed his arms, the corner of his mouth turned down.

"Your _fruit_ is bruised?" Sherlock repeated. He pursed his lips.

"I was about to skin the apples for the pie for dessert and they were in a basket on the table. I heard something. I froze. I waited a good long minute, barely breathing. The fear was paralyzing, if you can imagine. I didn't hear anything. I came out of the pantry and everything looked the same. Funny thing is, I never heard the kitchen doors open or close once. They squeak something awful. I always know when someone comes in my kitchen." She pursed her lips, eyes wide and continued.

"I looked at the time and it was getting late. When I came down stairs everyone was in the study and we all went into the media room. I heard a knock at the door and Scott went to get it. I'm assuming that was you. Then the Will was read, then I saw you two walk out with Mike and Dan. I still didn't know who you were. When I went back to the kitchen to do the apples with Rachel and Sara I saw that all of them were terribly bruised. They were _not_ bruised this morning; I picked them out of the basket myself at the store. I never buy bruised fruit. Someone came in my kitchen and knocked them onto the ground. That's the only way they would be bruised like that."

Sherlock looked surprised. "A valid deduction, once explained."

"So he thinks I'm right?" Elaine asked John, who smiled.

"I'd say so."

"The kitchen is on the floor directly above the garage and beside the media room, yes?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, why?"

"I have a theory." He said. With that he turned his back and darted out the door.

Elaine looked at John, who rolled his eyes. "Such a drama queen… Just goes _dashing _out.. Come on, we'd best go with him."

John and Elaine ventured into the hall in time to see Sherlock disappear around the corner at the end of it. They hurried after him. John took the corner. In front of them was the spiral staircase leading up to the kitchen and the double doors leading into the study. No sign of Sherlock.

"Which way?" Elaine asked, glancing between the stairs and the door.

"I expect he's gone to the kitchen." John said, starting up the stairs. "Always has to be so bloody dramatic about everything…"

"I think we would have heard the steps…" Elaine said, following behind him. John was halfway up when the wood groaned loudly under his weight.

"Anything that doesn't creak in this house?" John asked when they were at the top of it.

"Not at all. The lights go out sometimes, everything creaks all night; this house has such a personality." Elaine replied.

They were walking towards the kitchen door when a loud, high shriek came from inside. Elaine jumped, putting her hands over her mouth and John dashed forward. He flung the door open and saw…

"Mate, what are you doing?" John asked, crossing his arms. Sherlock was lying flat on his back beside the pantry door. Across the room stood two startled women with their hands in the air. One held a large steel pan in her hand and judging by her face it appeared that she was ready to swing it. The other just seemed scared. Both looked at John and Elaine with open mouths and wide eyes.

"He fell out of ze' wall!" one of the women squeaked, pointing at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled over and got to his feet. "It was a bit cramped. I _told_ you there's a dumbwaiter that services all three floors, John. Look here." He reached out and touched the light oak panels beside the pantry, pressing at them. After a moment, the panels popped out slightly and he inserted a finger into the space. With a tug, a long thin spring loaded door opened. It had blended perfectly into the wall.

"Oh!" Elaine breathed, running to where Sherlock stood. "Would you look at _that_!"

"I obtained the floor plan of the house before I came." Sherlock said dryly, looking pleased with himself. He ruffled his hair with both hands.

"That's fantastic." John said, coming closer to inspect it. The space was large enough that a person could kneel inside easily. Sherlock let go of the panel and it sprang closed with a quiet snap.

"The study downstairs was originally the formal dining room and the media room was once the serving quarters." Sherlock provided. "The dumbwaiter went from the kitchen into the serving room, then the food was wheeled into the dining room on a cart. When the home was restored ten years ago the dumbwaiters were all serviced. The mechanics are still in perfect working order. Undoubtedly, if someone was in here with you earlier today Mrs. Hawthorn, this would have been how they entered undetected. Though, getting back _out_ of it was more difficult than I had anticipated."

"Fancy that." One of the women said, coming to stand beside Sherlock. It was Rachel, the dark haired woman dating Daniel. She had changed into jeans and a blue button up shirt. The other woman, Sara, approached them as well.

"I saw you two in ze' media parlour." She said. Her accent was French. She reached out to shake John's hand.

"That is awfully creepy." Elaine said, staring at the place where the door had been. Now that she looked closely she could see the outline of the door in the paneling.

"Sorry, so you are ze' detective?" Sara asked Sherlock.

He nodded. "I am."

"Weren't you going to come on Tuesday?"

"Change of circumstance, change of plans." He said coolly.

"It's a good thing Mr. Holmes came tonight. I told you how I thought there was someone in here with me this afternoon?" Elaine asked.

Sara and Rachel nodded.

"Well, I became sure of it just a bit ago when I was looking at my apples."

Sara and Rachel tilted their heads in confusion as Elaine continued. "He's on the case. ."

Sherlock looked around the room, his expression awkward. John smiled, knowing that Sherlock was here more for the intellectual exercise that the mystery held than to put his restless client at ease.

"Dreadful business, all of this." Rachel said, hugging herself around the shoulders. She looked around. "Well, dinner will be out soon, they'd better head down the hall. I just want to get the night over with and go to bed. I'm tired."

"I'll show z'em out." Sara said, starting towards the door. Sherlock and John followed.

"If you see Michael would you ask him to go down to the cellar and fetch back the cabernet?" Elaine called as they stepped into the hall.

"Of course!" Sara called back. Her hips switched lazily as she walked in front of them to the opposite end of the hall. She gave the doors a gentle push and they swung open wide.

"Help yourself to a drink or two if you would like. Z'er is plenty to go around." She said, smiling at John coyly. She pointed to a table in the corner of the room that held a crystal bottle of liquor.

"Right, thanks. I'll keep that in mind." He replied, smiling.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, god." He muttered, disgusted.

Sara gave Sherlock a wink as she slinked towards the door. "Don't worry Mr. Holmes," her accent was thick and cloying. "I won't steal him from you. I've already got a man of my own and I can tell that _you_ are the type who doesn't like to share." She snapped the door closed behind her. John was silent.

Sherlock glanced at John, who was inspecting the bottle of liquor. "So… Have you finally given up on defending your availability when people make incorrect assumptions?"

"Hmm?" John said, looking up. "Oh I don't bother anymore. I'm surprised you haven't noticed." He shrugged. "Everyone does it anyways, no matter what I say."

"I did notice. This is the eighth time you _haven't_ made an attempt to correct that assumption over the course of the last few months. I was just wondering if you'd finally given up."

"_You_ never bothered to in the first place." John sighed.

"Because the assumption never bothered me."

There was a long pause.

"Okay." John said. He felt his heart flutter and pushed it aside. He knew what Sherlock meant. The assumptions hadn't bothered him because he didn't give a care for what other people thought. That was all.

Sherlock had one hand in his trouser pocket and was rolling the tiny revolver between his fingers.

John looked at him. "Nothing bothers you."

"Not knowing things bothers me. There's a lot right now that I don't know."

John nodded.

A loud, high bell rang, making the pair jump.

"Dinner bell. I'd like to sit in the middle. Best place for hearing all angles of conversation." Sherlock murmured, striding forward to take a seat.


	5. Chapter 5 - The Game

**Chapter 5**

**The Game**

The dining table was a long, rustic rectangle made of polished oak and framed with carved copper. It was set with flawless, gold patterned china and sterling silverware. It had matching chairs with crimson seat pillows. Intricate leaf and berry patterns were carved in the metal on the arms of each chair. The flooring was set with light terracotta flagstones that looked clean enough to eat off of. The wallpaper was cream flaked with gold and above the table hung sparkling crystal chandelier.

In filtered the household. Sara, Rachel and Elaine all rolled in a cart filled with dishes. There was a bouillabaisse that had been made by Sara and a succulent looking roast made by Elaine. The side dishes were two different kinds of rice, a pan of roasted vegetables, a few meat pies, rolls, stuffed bell peppers and a casserole which had all been prepared and cooked by Rachel.

"Love, this looks incredible." Damon said to Sara, helping her and Elaine set out the meal.

Sara flashed him a smile. "Oui, je me suis surpassé." She mumbled, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

John looked at Sherlock quizzically.

"She said 'Yes, I have outdone myself'." He muttered.

"Ah."

The household seated themselves at the table. Sherlock did a quick head count. He noticed Elaine glancing around as she dished up a helping.

"Sara, did you happen to see Michael?" she asked, lifting a pile of green beans onto her plate.

"I did."

"He's not here."

"Don't worry dear. He was in ze' study. I sent him into ze' cellar to fetch z'at wine just a moment ago. Like you asked." She smiled, gracefully digging her knife into a piece of hot, steaming meat. The smell was intoxicating. John began to dig into a plate. Across from Sherlock sat Scott, who looked up from his drink.

"I apologize for my attitude earlier this evening." He said. "I was a bit over the line, speaking to you like that. I understand that it is your job. You just caught us all at a difficult time."

"I wasn't concerned in the least." Sherlock replied, honestly. "I'm merely here to see what I can learn and ensure that the situation doesn't escalate."

"By _escalate_ do you mean_"

"Mr. Holmes discovered that the old dumbwaiter that goes into the kitchen still works." Elaine said, cutting him off as she dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "This afternoon I was in the kitchen and I had the most awful feeling someone was there with me, except I hadn't heard anyone come in. Mr. Holmes discovered how it may have been possible."

Daniel sighed, running a hand over his smooth head. "Think you're getting more worked up over this than you really need to be? I think you're just starting to scare yourself. It's worrying me. I know there's a lot of odd stuff happening right now, but we can't let our imaginations run wild. That's how paranoia develops. Paranoia can become a threat in itself."

"Very true." John agreed.

Rachel frowned. "She said that exact same thing to Maxime when Maxime came to her and said she was being stalked. I wouldn't repeat that if I were you. If Elaine thinks that someone was in the kitchen with her, I believe her."

"And who would that be?" Daniel asked, setting down his fork and knife.

"Who kidnapped Maxime?" Elaine snapped, staring at Daniel. The sigh that escaped him was condescending.

_Very passive aggressive family._ John thought, looking around.

"Better question, who had a _motive_?" Sherlock chimed in with a flourish of his hand. "That is the right question. There is no question as to whether someone was in the kitchen with Elaine. What doesn't make sense is that no one seemed to have any kind of motive for hurting Mrs. and Mr. Roselander. They were well liked, they kept to themselves and they were generous people from what I've gathered. The background summary I was able to do showed that they had no enemies who might pose _that_ level of threat. Who would want to kill them? A killer needs both motive and opportunity. What was the point of taking Mrs. Roselander and playing her husband like a flute?"

The room had gone silent.

"That's just it. _No one_ would want them dead." Scott said finally. "None of us could think of a single person."

"We have to talk about this now?" Sara asked quietly.

Sherlock ignored her. "And yet somehow Mr. Roselander was under the impression that every one of you were at fault somehow. Why? Not one of you has the faintest idea? Please, give it some thought. When Mrs. Roselander disappeared, how many of you endured questions from Mr. Roselander?"

Daniel met Sherlock's eyes. His voice was defensive. "Rachel and I were abroad in Germany visiting her family when all of this happened. I wasn't in contact with anyone during that time. I cut off communication from my life when I travel. We returned two days ago. If Tommy had come to me I would have done anything in my power to help."

Sara set down her spoon and pushed her bowl away. "My husband and I have been living in London. He called and told me what had happened when Maxime went missing. We were terrified for her. We came to help the search parties. For days, we looked. It was horrible. Every day, looking and not finding her. We finally left, we had to return to work. He called later in the week, asking questions. He asked if we had ever been to the store by the trails. Of course we had, we told him. He asked us if we could remember who owned the store before Michael we couldn't. I told him how sorry we were."

"Did he seem unstable?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward in his chair.

"Wouldn't you be, if that happened to you? If your love vanished without a trace and you did not find him? Grief can make you go mad." She nodded at John as she said this.

Sherlock's eyes darted to John and away quickly. He focused on Sara. "What else did he ask you?"

"I don't know. He asked about ze' store. He told me that Maxime's life could depend on it. When I asked him if he knew anything he wasn't telling the police or us he dropped ze' call. He would not answer me. I urged him to go to ze' police if z'er was anything he knew and he would not. I started to think he was going mad."

Sherlock nodded. "Here are the facts. Mr. Roselander believed that all of you were at fault for his wife's disappearance and death. He questioned most of you. He obviously didn't get whatever he needed. He altered his will and made sure that all of you would be present for the reading tonight before killing himself. Why?"

"He went mad." Daniel hissed. "You act as though this is all some sinister plot for revenge, Mr. Holmes."

"Is there something you all have in common that would warrant revenge?" Sherlock asked, looking around. Nobody spoke for a long moment.

Elaine tried to change the conversation by asking Scott about the paintings he'd been given and John saw Sherlock's hand moving under the table as they spoke. He was still rolling the tiny revolver in between his fingers. John reached out and rested his hand over Sherlock's to still his movement. Sherlock glanced down at him, surprised by the gesture and at the warmth of John's hand.

"I'm fine." He muttered.

"You're worked up." John whispered, not removing his hand. "What's going on Sherlock?"

"The revolver. I can't place it. I feel like something _obvious_ is right in front of my face."

John frowned. "I don't think it's anything to think about mate'. What it looks like to me is one of the pieces from our Cluedo game. It probably just fell in with clothes when Mrs. Hudson was packing things to send. The way you toss things all over the place, I wouldn't be surprised if it was just floating around."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open. "_That's_ where it's from. Fantastic, thank you John." He seemed to ponder the thought for a moment. "Too much of a coincidence… Not conformational bias..."

"You think she packed it on purpose?"

"What? I don't think she packed it at all. Try to keep up John. Really, sometimes you're as bright as a wet match."

John rolled his eyes. "A moment ago I was fantastic." He was too used to Sherlock to be offended. "So someone else packed it? Maybe they want to play Cluedo." He joked.

John saw Sherlock's eyes widen. "Oooh. Of course. The game is on. Literally." He breathed, clapping his hands together.

"Hmm?" John said. Out of the corner of his vision he saw Elaine rise from her seat.

"Michael's been gone for an awful long time. I'm going to check up on him." She said, excusing herself from the table.

"You're completely right John. Brilliant. It was a message. That's why we've been invited here, to _play_." Sherlock murmured.

"One moment I'm fantastic, the next I'm a wet match, the next I'm brilliant…" John mumbled.

"Excuse me? What are you talking about?" Rachel asked, leaning forward in her chair. "I heard you mention Cluedo?"

John looked at her. He plucked the tiny revolver out of Sherlock's hand and held it up. "We found this rolled into one of Sherlock's shirts. It's the little revolver from our game back home."

"Where was it exactly?" Scott asked, leaning forward.

"It was inside one of the shirts my landlady packed." Sherlock replied. "I texted her a list of things I'd need with instructions on how to have it sent to me here. _This_ was not one of them."

"I only ask because Rachel's got a piece from a game too." Scott said loudly, reaching forward to take the revolver out of Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock's eyes darted to Rachel, who was fishing around in her purse. "It was in with my cosmetics." She said. At least she pulled out something tiny and silver. She reached across the table and dropped it in John's hand. It was a candlestick.

"I found it but I didn't realize what it was until I heard you _say_ Cluedo. It's been years since I've played that." She explained.

"Did anyone else get one?" Sherlock asked, getting to his feet. His heart rate escalated. He took the revolver and the candlestick, pocketing them both.

John looked at him, recognizing Sherlock's expression. His eyes were darting around the room, thinking, calculating.

"Not good?" John asked, getting to his feet.

"I need to think. Quickly. Someone's going to die. We've been set up, John. We were not invited here by someone who wanted us to help, as I had originally thought. We were invited by someone who wanted us to _play_. You know how Cluedo starts. It starts with someone being _dead_."

"Jesus." John said, his expression serious. He knew the look on Sherlock's face. There would only be one reason that Sherlock would actually look worried. "Do you think it could be him? Moriarty, I mean?"

"It's something _he_ would certainly do. Ahh. That's why the Mr. Roselander's body was moved."

"What?" John asked, squinting.

"If Mr. Roselander's body hadn't been moved to London, I wouldn't be on the case. It would be Ezell's case still. I wouldn't be near it.. It was put there to draw me in. He knows me so well. It worked."

"It's definitely him then." John said, taking a deep breath.

"I've said it before, John. As a conductor of light you are unbeatable."

"I haven't got anything." Scott said loudly, looking around at Daniel, Damon and Sara.

"I haven't either." Sara said. She looked at Damon and Daniel who shook their heads.

"The revolver was in my shirt, the candlestick was in the makeup bag. Both were places where we would be sure to find them." Sherlock muttered.

"Oh!" Sara said, getting to her feet. "I never did my makeup today. I thought, why put it on? It will only run if I cry. I may as well check!"

The room broke into anxious chatter and the noise quickly became overwhelming.

"Everyone shut up! I need to think!" Sherlock snapped, throwing his hands up. He began pacing the room. His thoughts were running wild.

_Two innocent people's completely lives destroyed. John and I lured here to investigate. Locked inside the house with a murderer…Teflon… Prepaid train tickets… Industrial… Suicide… Murder….Stowaway on train… Stowaway in dumbwaiter… I have the real revolver and the game piece I was given _is_ a revolver…. Does Rachel have a real candlestick in her purse? Is that our weapon that we would use to kill or what we are going to be killed with? The game starts when someone dies… Solve the murder… Everyone has a weapon and a place…. A handful of cards… guessing… Secret passages…Who is the killer, where did they kill and with that weapon…_

"A real life game of Cluedo." He said aloud.

"What do you want to do?" John asked, frowning.

Sherlock looked down at him and smiled. "Win, of course."


	6. Chapter 6 - Revolver, Rope, Spanner

**CHAPTER 6**

**Revolver, Rope, Spanner**

"You're not going to be able to get ahold of him John." Sherlock said as he paced the room.

"Just because I can't get any signal doesn't mean I can't try." John argued, trying in vain to phone Lestrade.

"You're wasting your time. It won't work. Mobile phone jammers are easy to build. Jamming devices overpower the phone by transmitting a signal on the same frequency and at a high enough power that the two signals collide and cancel each other out. Mobile phones use two separate frequencies, one for talking and one for listening simultaneously. Cell phones are designed to add power if they experience low-level interference, so the jammer must recognize and match the power increase from the phone. I've tried several times to send a text. When we got here, I had enough signal to send a message. Now, I don't. We are stuck here John, trapped in the game." He flourished a hand dramatically as he spoke.

"Having fun?" John asked.

"Not bored anymore." Sherlock replied.

"Maybe don't do the smiling right now… Everyone's kind of freaking out." John suggested quietly. He was trying to send another text.

The other occupants of the room had been standing uselessly at the end of the table. Each of them had a concerned crease imbedded deeply in their foreheads.

"Mr. Holmes?" Rachel said, stepping forward. Her expression was tense.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied, looking up at her.

"My car keys have been taken, out of my purse. I've just realized."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes I thought we'd established the fact that we are all temporarily trapped here."

"What kind of sick joke is this?" Daniel spat.

"It's not a joke, it's deadly serious I assure you. Oh! _Stupid_." Sherlock looked around, startled. "How long has Mrs. Hawthorn been gone?" he asked urgently.

Scott frowned. "She went down stairs to the cellar to get Michael…Do you thin__oh my god_."

Sherlock swore. "Stupid!" He stalked towards the door with a swift, unearthly poise. John followed him out of the room and could hear the other occupants on their heels. John turned around.

"What's happening?" Rachel asked him.

"Everyone, stay here, you'll all just get in the way." Sherlock snapped.

John nodded. "Stay _here_. All of you, go back into the dining room and stay _together_. _That is an order_." John barked when Daniel and Scott opened their mouths to argue.

Sherlock had taken off at a run.

"We will do whatever we can. Stay here." John repeated. He ran to catch up with Sherlock, who was halfway to the end of the hall near the main stairs.

"Sherlock?" John asked when his friend stopped abruptly. John almost ran into him.

"I was too busy working out how they lured us here in the first place. I'd lost sight of the moment. We're playing _right now_ John. The game's already started and we're a turn behind. I need to catch up."

He descended down to the first floor and followed the hallway until he discovered the ground floor stairs.

"Where are we going?" John called. Sherlock flew down the ground floor staircase, speaking rapidly.

"In the start of the Cluedo game where is Mr. Black found dead?"

"In the cellar_ _Jesus Christ_." John swore as Sherlock threw open the cellar door. It was a deep, damp, icy room filled with wine racks. The ground was tiled, the walls were stone. In the center of the room lying stretched out on the flood was a shadowed body. John ran forward and dropped to his knees in front of it. He reached around the man's neck and felt for a pulse. It was Michael Hawthorn. On his back there was a piece of paper.

"He's dead." John muttered as Sherlock picked up the paper.

"Cluedo, the Classic Detective Game! Dear Professor Plum and Colonel Mustard, the game is on. Mrs. White has been taken hostage. You play or she will pay." Sherlock read.

"Elaine must have been taken." John muttered, inspecting the body.

"_Professor Plum?_ I'm sure he finds that extremely amusing._"_ Sherlock said darkly, a look of disgust on his face. John looked up at him.

"To be fair, you wore your purple shirt all day. Up until dinner anyways. Don't understand why I have to be Colonel Mustard though" John muttered darkly. "Look, he's had a single blow to the front of the head."

Sherlock kneeled beside the body. "Meaning he was looking at whoever killed him. Signs of a struggle?"

"Not that I can see."

"If he had been killed on this spot there would be far more blood. He didn't die here. Elaine said she was coming down to check on him. The rest of the family was in the room with us. Perhaps Elaine killed him and kidnapped herself? Perhaps she killed him and then was kidnapped? Perhaps someone else killed him and she came down here and found him and was kidnapped? She did fear she was being stalked… Oh, this is rather good…"

"We've got to find her."

"John, I think we need to play. I think if we don't then it is very likely that we will find her. Dead." Sherlock replied.

"Okay, okay." John said, taking a deep breath.

"We need to find the murder weapon." Sherlock said, getting to his feet. "Also the place of the murder. We can't _just_ find out who did it. That's the way you play, in the game."

"He just wants to watch us dance Sherlock. I don't like this." John groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"We'll get ahead of him. Just give me a few turns." Sherlock said absently, looking around the room. He started walking towards the stairs and John was right on his heels.

"Where was the last place he was seen?" John asked as the ascended out of the cold cellar.

Sherlock replied instantly. "The Study, John. Sara saw him in the study and told him to fetch the wine."

"You think it was her?"

"Our very own Mrs. Scarlett? Not sure yet. I can't rule it out."

They traveled down the hall and entered the study. Sherlock swept across the room. "Here," He said. He was standing behind the desk. John ran to him, expecting to see a puddle of blood. He saw nothing. Sherlock pointed at the ground right in front of his shoe. John bent down, noticing a glint of silver.

"A tiny spanner." He muttered, passing it to Sherlock who put it in his pocket with the candlestick and the revolver.

"He'd been given the spanner before he died…" Sherlock said slowly. "But he did not die here. This is the last place he was seen alive, as far as we know. We have the revolver, candlestick and spanner. We need to find who has the rope, the lead pipe and the knife…"

"Okay, so there are six characters total in the game, right?"

"In the original version, there were ten players." Sherlock replied. "There were nine of us total starting out tonight. Now there is me, you, Scott, Daniel, Damon, Sara and Rachel. That's seven."

"So is it safe the say we're not playing exactly by the rules?"

"It would be easier if we were." Sherlock retorted. He jumped suddenly, throwing his hands up. "Oh, oh I've got it."

He started walking towards the media room.

"Sorry, what?" John said, following close behind. He followed Sherlock inside, watching as he flicked on the lights and began looking around.

"Ah, here!" he said, pointing to the ground. John walked around the end of the front lounge chair. The red carpet was dark in one spot. John knelt and touched it. His finger came away slick with blood.

"How did you know?" John asked.

"During the reading he rose from his seat once, to go and kiss his wife. He rose quickly and dropped his phone. He didn't retrieve it at the time. He'd forgotten it. Perhaps he remembered it. Or, perhaps someone reminded him. He came back in here and was killed." Sherlock said.

"That's brilliant." John said.

Sherlock got down on his knees and poked his head under the lounge chair. He reached in and pulled out the silver spanner.

"So, whatever game piece the victims are given is what they're going to be killed with."

"You were given the revolver." John said, worried.

"I also _have_ the revolver and it's not likely that I'm going to shoot myself, is it? Back to the dining hall. I need to interview our suspects."

"Break it to them gently Sherlock." John warned.

"They all hated Michael. It was obvious. None of them will be overly distressed."

"Why do you think they hated him?"

"God only knows. Every person in that room is a liar." He said, shaking his head. "I expect he was a cheat. He lied about his ex-wife in order to gain sole custody of his children_ oh!"

"Hm?"

"The quote! Mr. Roselander's quote. _Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and, to conclude, they are lying knaves. _He was talking about his _family_. Obviously. Six things. A false report of something, a lie, terrible slander, belied a lady, verified things that were not true and they are all lying knaves._"_

"You're losing me Sherlock."

"It's just a theory. Mr. Roselander blamed his family for Maxime being taken. Specifically he blamed the Hawthorns. Michael belied his ex-wife to get custody of his children. Apparently, it's all connected. It might help to find out which of them did what and to whom. I think that's the _real_ game John. I don't think we're really playing Cluedo. I'm starting to understand."

"Right, got it. What do we have to go off?"

"Mr. Roselander wanted to find out how Michael came to own his store. I suggest we start there."

They were half way back up the spiral stairs when Sherlock heard footsteps coming towards them. They wrapped around the bend and came face to face with Damon and Sara, who halted abruptly, startled. Sherlock threw up his hands, irritated. "What are you doing? Most_ dogs_ do better than you lot when ordered to stay, we haven't been gone twenty minutes!" he spat.

"Daniel and Scott left to find Elaine! They couldn't wait any longer and we were supposed to come find you to tell you!" Damon said, out of breath. "Glad we finally found you. We've been running all over the place."

"Where is Rachel?" John asked, worried.

"In the dining room. She wanted to stay."

"How long?" Sherlock asked urgently.

"We've only been gone a few minutes!" Sara cried.

John swore. Sherlock shoved past Damon and Sara, running towards the dining room. They burst through the door.

Sherlock groaned in frustration when he saw that the room was empty. "A man is dead in his house, I am trying to solve a crime and this might go a _bit smoother_ if you didn't all prance about like startled sheep. I am not a shepherd, it is not my job to contain you and protect you. For God's sake, have some respect, go back to the dining room, sit down and do not move. Do not leave. Do not go looking for anybody. Stay there." He hissed at Sara and Damon. Sara's eyes filled with tears.

"Where is Rachel?" she asked.

"She would be _here_, with you if you had followed instructions." Sherlock's voice with thick with contempt. Sara's eyes narrowed as she looked at him. Damon clenched his fists. He was opening his mouth to speak but John cut him off.

"Just do what he says." He said, staring Damon down. Damon reached out, grabbed Sara by the hand.

John turned and looked at his friend. Sherlock had a calculating expression. "Plan? Sherlock?" John asked, urgency in his voice.

"Cellar. If they went to look for Elaine they would have gone to the cellar." Sherlock snapped, turning away. "They'll find the body and most likely go into shock. Odds are they'll still be there."

"_Body_?" Damon asked, shaking his head. "What do you mean _body_?"

John looked at him. "Michael's been killed and Elaine's gone missing. We have reason to believe that she's been kidnapped." He said gravely.

Sara's breathing became shallow and strangled. She was hyperventilating, unable to speak. Tears were overflowing from her eyes.

John nodded. "Look, please go back and wait. Stay together, whatever you do. Sherlock was right, we've all been lured here. We don't know why and we can't work on figuring that out until everyone is in one place and safe. We are with the police and we need your cooperation. Do you understand?" He asked, pointing to the dining room. Damon nodded, wrapped an arm around Sara's shoulder and led her away. John closed the door behind him.

Sherlock made a frustrated noise and turned to run back down the stairs. John followed him back down to the ground floor, across the hallway and down the steps to the cellar door. They burst through it to find…

"What the hell." John whispered. The icy, dimly lit stone room was empty.

"He _was_ dead?" Sherlock asked, glancing down at John with a bemused expression.

"What_ yes, yes of course he was."

"You're sure?" Sherlock asked.

"Very."

Wordlessly Sherlock turned and climbed the stairs back to the ground floor. He scanned the ground.

"There," he said, pointing to the carpet. "When anything is moved over carpet it leaves a mark. He was dragged, you can see it."

"Sherlock," John said. Sherlock looked up to see a man running towards them.

"Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, come quickly. Elaine's been hurt." Daniel said, slowing.

Sherlock's gaze snapped up to focus on the man. "_What?_ When did you last see her?"

"About twenty minutes ago, I escorted her to the dining hall to wait with Rachel. Sara and Damon were gone. Then I came to look for you. She'd nearly been strangled. She got locked in the bathroom up stairs."

"She escaped." John breathed. "She'd been caught and escaped. Did she say anything?"

"She was dazed but she did say_ his_ name quite a few times." Daniel snapped, pointing at Sherlock. "She couldn't get a full sentence out. She also said Michael was in the cellar so I came here."

"Michael _was_ in the cellar. He's gone now." Sherlock drawled. "So is Rachel. She's not in the dining room and neither was Elaine. We were just there."

John put a hand to his forehead. "This is ridiculous." He said.

"When did you see Michael?" Daniel asked, his voice urgent.

"The cellar, about a half an hour ago." Sherlock said blandly. He turned away, making for the dining room. The other's followed.

"Where's he gone then?" Daniel asked.

"_To hell, most likely."_ Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Sorry?" Daniel replied, not quite hearing him.

"So sorry to have to tell you, he's dead." John said. "Hit on the head with this spanner." John pulled the heavy tool out of his pocket.

Daniel swore several times. John explained how they had found him and what had happened on their end. "_so you found Elaine and took her back to wait with Rachel after Sara and Damon had left. When we went with Sara and Damon, Rachel and Elaine weren't_ this house is too big."

The entered the dining room. Sara and Damon were sitting on the loveseat in the corner of the room. Sara was sobbing.

Sherlock's shoes clicked over the terracotta flagstone as he made his way to the center of the dining room. "What is the point? That is what I don't understand. I get _what_ we're doing. I have a good idea of why though I'm unsure of the specifics." He said quietly. "But what is _he_ getting out of it? Other than a laugh."

"Who?" Daniel asked, looking at John.

"I promise, you don't want to know." John replied.

"Did Elaine say _anything_ else when you found her?" Sherlock asked Daniel sharply.

"She wasn't speaking clearly. I couldn't understand her. She was in shock and her voice was rasping terribly."

"It happens when someone nearly strangles you." Sherlock snapped. "What happened to Scott?"

"We split up to look for you and Michael!" Daniel whined, putting a hand on the back of his neck. The distress was clear in his voice.

John saw Sherlock's patience crumble.

"_Split up_? GOD you are all so STUPID! THERE IS A MURDERER IN THE HOSUE!" Sherlock roared. "WHAT PART OF 'CRIME SCENE' DO YOU ALL NOT UNDERSTAND?"

There was silence.

"What now?" John finally asked.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose in between two fingers. "We can't really just wait here forever… John, if I may have a word…" he walked outside the room. John followed and Sherlock snapped the doors closed. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the thin brass key and inserted it into the lock. It gave a satisfied click.

"Where did you get that?" John asked.

"On the cellar floor. It was either left for us or it fell out of Michael's pocket when his body was moved. Either way, it would be useful for them to stay there for a while."

"Yeah. Wish we could have done that in the first place." John agreed. "I don't understand any of this."

"I don't either. I don't like not knowing. Moriarty is the most thorough criminal I have ever encountered. There's too much to consider and I don't have enough information. I have theories, _so_ many theories but no way to test them."

John nodded. "You have a plan?"

Sherlock nodded. "We're going to split up."

John shook his head. "What happened to 'splitting up is stupid'?"

"For the average person it is. You can handle yourself. As can I. I'm going to search the third floor It's mostly bedrooms but you never know what could be hidden in those. You search the first floor and this one. There's a passageway in the billiard room that leads all the way through the house and into the garage. It's directly behind the bar. I need you to see if it works. If it does, that passage has an opening that can go to any room on that floor."

"You are sure about this? It doesn't seem to be working very well when the others do it." John asked, his forehead creasing with worry.

"We need to move fast. Rachel and Scott might be alive. Elaine might be also. There's an invisible killer running lose in the house. We need to find _someone_. I need more information. There's a service bell in every room. If you find anyone, ring the bell and meet me back at the dining room."

John locked eyes with Sherlock for a long moment.

"I don't like this." He said again.

"Trust me." Sherlock insisted, staring into his eyes. "I have some theories. Just trust me."

John turned away. "Okay." He said, starting towards the stairs. He stopped when he felt Sherlock grab the back of his arm. John turned, looking up into Sherlock's face. Sherlock stepped forward, leaving a few inches of space between them. John's breath caught in his throat.

"Be careful. Please." Sherlock said quietly. He released his hold on John's arm and turned away. John breathed out heavily.

A half an hour later John had been in and out of almost every room. He hadn't heard anything from Sherlock. John checked the billiard room and had finally given up on opening the secret passage Sherlock had mentioned. It just wasn't happening. He made his way into the kitchen. Going from the dim billiard room and hallway into the blinding, fluorescent kitchen hurt his eyes. He blinked, letting them adjust. It was eerily silent. Outside, lighting flashed. He glanced out the windows and tried to see through the downpour. He could barely make out the cars in the sloping driveway. That weather alert hadn't been a joke, each car was tire deep in water.

John was making his way around the other counter towards the door when he saw a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. He looked down and his heart skipped a beat. There was a spot of liquid red, vibrantly contrasted against the smooth white tile.

_How did I miss that?_ He thought. There was another drop only a few feet from the first. He looked across the floor in the direction it seemed to be coming from and saw a cluster of drops outside the pantry door.

"Dammit." John whispered, walking towards the door. His heart began pounding. He reached for his Browning L9A1 and leveled it, finger on the trigger. With a sharp breath he swung the door open and stepped back, ready to fire. Immediately he lowered the weapon. There, lying propped up against the bread shelf was Rachel. She had balled up a towel and was holing it against her side. It was soaked with blood. Her head was down and her curly hair was a mess hanging in front of her face.

John dropped to his knees in front of her. "Rachel? Rachel, can you hear me?" He reached for her wrist. There was a pulse.

"_Please help me_." She whined when he touched her. John startled, releasing her wrist. She took a strangled breath. "_He's coming back_. He's coming back, he said he would."

John whipped around, making sure no one was behind him. Rachel's breathing was becoming heavy and ragged. He pressed his head to her chest and listened. There was no sign that blood was obstructing her airways.

"Dammit. Dammit. Okay, Rachel, listen to me. I know it hurts. I know, but you need to slow your breathing. Look at me," John said firmly. He pulled her hair out of her face and look at her. There was a shiny patina of sweat across her forehead.

"I need you to do something with me okay Rachel?" John said. She nodded and he continued. "This is called Combat Breathing. It's what they teach soldiers to do when they've been injured. I need you to count your breathing with me. We're going to breath in through the nose on a four count, hold the breath for a four count, exhale through the lips for a four count, hold it for a four count and repeat that until your breathing is stable, okay? It's going to be very difficult, but if you continue breathing like that you're going to kill yourself. You have to slow it… Ready? Here we go. Breathing in through your nose, one, two, three, four. Hold it, one, two, three and four…"

John continued to glance behind him as he helped Rachel steady her breathing. Judging by the amount of blood John had the feeling that the wound wasn't deep. Slowly, he coaxed her into taking her hands away from the towel and letting John see the wound. It was two shallow punctures in the side of her hip.

"I saw him coming." Rachel breathed. "I saw him coming and tried to get out of the way. He missed. He was aiming for my stomach. Then his phone started ringing and he left me here. He's coming back though. He said he'd just be a moment."

"Who, can you tell me who it was?" John asked. His heart was hammering but his hands were steady as he worked to better bind the wound.

Her eyes were wide and streaming. Her face was pale and her voice quivered with fear and pain as she answered, grimacing from the pain. "The detective. Your friend, Sherlock Holmes."

John's eyebrows furrowed. "No, no it couldn't have been." He said, staring at her.

"It _was_. I _saw_ him. Please, you have to believe me. _Please_._ Please_. _Believe me_." She sobbed.

John shook his head. "You've lost a lot of blood. You're confused." He said firmly, glancing over his shoulder again. "Come on, we've got to get you out of here. Back to the dining hall."

John stood up, walking back into the kitchen and searched for the wall box. He found it beside the door and pressed the button that said _Rooms – Ring All_. He gave it two good rings. The bell sounded through every room in the house, just like it had hours earlier when dinner had been served. Sherlock would meet him at the dining room door. Everything would be fine. Everything was going to be just _fine_. John promised himself. He returned to the pantry and carefully lifted Rachel into his arms, reminding her to continue the breathing pattern he had taught her as he carried he out the door…


	7. Chapter 7 - Doppelganger

**CHAPTER 7**

**Doppleganger**

The third floor of Roselander Mansion had an ethereal feel to it. The walls were covered in sheer white wallpaper with pearly tones that glistened in the overhead lighting. The floor was plush white carpet and the hall seemed to stretch endlessly. Each door had a sparkling crystal nob on it. Sherlock stepped quietly down the hall and opened the first door on the right. A master bedroom with a luxurious full bath. He clicked the light on and looked around. It was empty. Room by room he went, searching. His heart rate was elevated and he breathed slowly, trying to calm it.

The hall had come to an end. Light shone from under the door. He swung the door open and stepped inside. Before him, lying on the floor was Elaine Hawthorn. She seemed to be unconscious, lying flat on her back with her arms spread around her. There was blood on her hands and arms. Kneeling beside her with a hand on her wrist was Scott. He looked up and the light glinted off his spectacles.

"Mr. Holmes. Please believe me when I tell you that I did not do this." He said, sitting back.

"Is she alive?"

"Yes. Unconscious though."

Sherlock nodded, running a hand through his hair. He knelt to examine her. Rope burns and bruising laced her slender neck and her hair had come undone in places, falling around her shoulders in a chaotic tangle of pins and curls. There was no rope to be seen.

"I did not do this." Scott repeated, his voice shaking.

"Obviously." Sherlock muttered, looking up at him. "If you had done it she would be dead by now and there would be a rope in your hands, wouldn't there?"

"When I found here, there was a man bent over her. He was sitting on her stomach. He had a rope in his hands and was strangling her. I was at the other end of the hall. I ran at him, yelling. He ran into the lounge, there." Scott pointed to a door on the left. "I ran after him. The door was locked and I kicked it down. He was gone when I got in."

"What did he look like?" Sherlock asked.

"I couldn't see his face. He was wearing a mask. At first glance though, I thought it was you. He had on a white button up shirt, black trousers, similar to what you're wearing. He had a wool coat, similar to yours. Maybe even the same, I don't know. His hair was dark, curly but shorter and he had a thicker build. He had a bit of a stomach, which you certainly don't."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "No, I don't."

Scott's face was ashen, his eyes were sunken from exhaustion and his hands trembled violently. "She's got subconjunctival hemorrhaging in her eyes as well as ligature marks around her neck and wrists. Hemorrhages around the strap muscles, under the skin, in the sides of the tissue around the trachea and larynx." Scott mumbled as he inspected her closer. "Contusions on her shoulders and wrists as well. Abrasions on her elbow, as if she was thrown to the ground. There's blood, but no wound that could have left so much."

It was true, after examining her it was clear to Sherlock that the blood on her hands was not her own. Meaning someone else had been badly injured or killed.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What do you do for a living, Mr. Hawthorn?"

Scott looked up at Sherlock. "I run a hotel, the Hawthorn Heights in_"

Sherlock shook his head. "You were a doctor before that. Your description of her injuries gave you away."

Scott sighed. "I gave up the practice. Eight years ago."

"Why?"

"Wasn't working for me anymore."

"You said you gave it up. You weren't fired?"

Scott shook his head.

"Eight years ago. The same year as Michael Hawthorn came to own his convenience store."

Scott pursed his lips, looking away. "Yes."

"Mr. Hawthorn, before Mr. Roselander died he seemed very intent on discovering how Michael came to own his store. He came to own it the same year that you gave up your practice. People don't go to school for years to become a doctor and then just give it up for no reason to run a hotel. The purpose of these killings tonight has been to exert some kind of revenge. I've asked you all before and none of you answered me. Now people are dying. Your family is in danger, right now. I'm going to ask again. _What happened?_"

Scott put his head in his hands. "I couldn't keep practicing. I did something wrong. I never stopped regretting it."

"Tell me. Now."

"If I end up living through tonight I'll go to prison."

"You may not end up living through tonight if I don't solve this case." Sherlock snapped. Disgust was thick in his voice.

Scott took a deep, shuddering breath. "Eight years ago a man named Sam Mason owned that store. Michael tried to buy it from him, several times. Mason wouldn't sell it. Michael came to me one day, insisting that I needed to help him. He wanted me to falsify an X-ray of his ribs to look like they'd been broken. He was my little brother. When I was younger I had some drug problems. I overdosed once and Michael saved my life. He wanted me to give him this one favor. He claimed that Mason had accused him of stealing and attacked him with a bat but there was no damage actually done. I testified in court that his ribs had been broken. Daniel represented the case. Michael bullied Elaine and she testified as a witness. Actually, he bullied her into marrying him in the first place. She is so timid. Well, he won the lawsuit. The poor sod lost everything. Absolutely everything. His wife left him. He lost his home."

"He came back for revenge." Sherlock said, his voice cold. "He also managed to enlist the help of the most devious criminal mastermind I have ever encountered who is likely responsible for setting up what happened tonight like the scenes from a play."

Scott looked ashamed. "After I did that. After I realized that I had destroyed this man's life, I couldn't live with myself. I resigned my position. I lived alone. Didn't speak to my brothers until a year ago when I inherited the Hawthorn Heights from our parents and met Maxime for the first time."

"Did you know Mr. Mason at all?"

"I'd met him a few times before. Not the brightest man. I never would have believed him capable of something like this."

Sherlock set his revolver on the ground, reached under Elaine, picked her up and moved her onto the bed. He listened to her breathing. "Airways are clear." He said.

"I know. I checked. Thank you." Scott got to his feet. "I don't know why he wouldn't just kill us. Why he wouldn't just kill me. It wouldn't have been possible without me."

"The only logical solution is that killing you wasn't enough for this man. He wanted to destroy you and he didn't know how. It has been eight years since this happened. In all that time, he never tried to harm you. I have reason to believe he's had a significant amount of help with what is happening tonight. He didn't just want you dead, he wanted to burn you. He wanted to burn the heart out of you in every way that he possibly could and with help, he has. Maxime was taken because you loved her. Her husband was used to gather all of us here for the slaughter, including me."

Scott grimaced and put a hand over his face. "It was hard to come to that conclusion. That she was taken because of something I did years ago. How could I have known? Tommy went to Michael, asking questions about everything that happened. Michael told me but I never made the connection that it was Mason behind it. It seemed impossible."

"He kidnapped the woman you were in love with and threatened her husband into trying to discover proof of your crime. He couldn't and she died. He hung himself. It's possible he was forced to…"

A weak sounding cough came from the bed. Elaine stirred and her eyes fluttered open. Sherlock looked down on her. He watched her eyes focus. Suddenly, she gasped and brought a hand to her throat. Her mouth opened in a scream as she looked up at him but a horse croak came out. Weakly, she struggled to pull herself upright, away from him. Sherlock stepped back, a look of concern on his face. He glanced at Scott, who was staring at him strangely.

A wrecked sob came from her throat and she raised an accusing finger at Sherlock. "Get away! _Don't touch me!"_ she rasped, scooting backwards until she hit the wall. Her head lolled to the side. "You _killed _my husband! You killed Rachel! _Scott, please, help me_."

"Elaine, listen to me. The man who hurt you was not this man. I saw him. He ran from me when I discovered him. It was not Mr. Holmes."

"_They know. Sara knows, they all know it was him. They all know! Please, stop him_…" Elaine's voice was barely a whisper. Her breathing was ragged and shallow, her eyes began to drooped and she slumped sideways, unconscious.

Sherlock looked at Scott, who stared back at him, shaking his head. He went to her and checked her pulse.

"She's confused." Scott said, looking down at her.

Sherlock breathed in heavily. "I have to go to my mind palace."

"Your _what_?" Scott asked.

"I need to think. I'd be grateful for some silence."

"Sure, whatever you need."

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes. He visualized his internal map and began assessing the situation, running through possible scenarios. This woman believed that he had harmed her, had killed her husband and killed Rachel. Somehow, she believed that.. He'd ruled out every member of the family as the possible killer for various reasons. Elaine believed that Rachel was dead and that he'd killed her. It wasn't just about burning Scott by slaughtering his family. It was about burning Sherlock too. Destroying his reputation completely. Elaine wasn't supposed to die. She was meant to stand as witness..

"I understand." Sherlock said, opening his eyes. He heard a sharp buzzing sound. Scott looked mildly surprised and reached into his pocket. He started at his phone for a moment.

"No signal still, but I've got a snap-chat."

"_A what_?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"It's a picture message. You open it once and it disappears permanently six seconds after you open it."

Sherlock leaned around Scott's shoulder to see as he opened it. It was a picture of a young woman with a sunken face, hollow eyes and bedraggled blond hair. Her belly was swollen. She was holding up a cellphone and The date was current.

"Maxime." Scott whispered, horrified. "She's alive."

"You are going to be blackmailed now. Dull." Sherlock said dryly.

His phone buzzed again. Another snap-chat. It read… _-Follow my instructions if you want her to live…_

Sherlock frowned. "The rest of the family needs no incentive to want me dead or detained. They're all under the impression that I'm a murderer. You, on the other hand, witnessed that I am _not_ the murderer. They need to blackmail you. He kept her alive as a get out of jail free card."

"What will they do to her if I don't?" Scott asked, looking at Elaine's unconscious form, breathing evenly.

"What do you think they will do?" Sherlock asked. "They most likely won't kill her, they need her to control you. They _own_ her, therefore they own you and all your family's wealth."

"Do you think she'll be released if I kill you and help destroy your reputation?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I think they'll continue to blackmail you for the rest of your life. She may go unharmed though. They may feed her.." He calmly walked around the bed, remembering the revolver he'd left lying on the ground. "If you let me help you there is a very good chance that I could get to her. I could stop this…."

"There's also a very good chance that you really couldn't." Scott replied evenly.

"You would rather chance being blackmailed for the rest of your life?"

"That's a difficult decision Mr. Holmes. I would do anything to keep her alive. She is carrying our child." Scott said bitterly. The phone buzzed again.

"Damn." Sherlock muttered, looking around for his revolver and seeing that it wasn't there. "Stupid." He looked up. Scott had the gun in his hand. He raised it to point directly at Sherlock's chest. Sherlock smirked. They were four feet apart and he was close to the door… A moment of hesitation was all he would need…

"I'm curious, how good a shot are you?" he asked Scott.

In that instant, there was a loud ringing that echoed through the house…


	8. Chapter 8 - The Chase

**Chapter 8**

**The Chase**

"Everything is going to be fine." John said quietly when he'd rung the house bell several times. Slowly, he carried Rachel out of the kitchen and down the hall. His arms were burning when he got to the door. Sherlock wasn't there. John felt his heart sinking. He set Rachel down against the wall. He'd rung the bell a few times, just to make sure that Sherlock would hear.

"Keep pressure on that." John muttered, placing her hands over the binding. She nodded, keeping her breathing steady. On the ground directly in front of the door was the brass key. Sherlock had obviously left it for him. He inserted the key into the lock. The door swung open effortlessly and John lifted Rachel into his arms again. She groaned, her pale face cinched with pain.

"Oh my _god_," John said, looking around. Daniel Hawthorn was lying on the floor, stiff and pale. There was a needle sticking out of the side of his neck. Damon and Sara were nowhere to be seen. "But it was _locked_." He muttered. John's head reeled and he struggled to control his breathing.

"Rachel!" a voice cried. John looked around. The sound had come from below the dining table. Damon and Sara crawled out from under it as John set Rachel on the sofa.

"_What happened_?" John asked. Sara was sobbing again and fell to her knees.

"Sara, please, I'm going to be okay." Rachel whispered. "It's not that bad. Doctor Watson fixed me up."

Sara nodded, reaching a hand out to her shoulder.

Damon took a deep breath. "That man. The detective. He came in through the wall. Daniel heard a noise coming from the wall and told us to hide. We hid. The wall opened up and Daniel yelled and that bastard attacked him. I almost suffocated Sara to keep her from screaming."

John shook his head, frowning. "Why do you think it was him if you were under the table?" He asked slowly.

"I'm telling you, it was him. I saw his coat. The coat he was wearing earlier. I couldn't see his face from under there, but I know it was his coat and it had blood on it. Then he went back into the wall, as quick as he came and Daniel fell on the floor. Then Scott came in in here through the same spot. It's a passage, see and he had followed Holmes. He called for us. I came out of under the table. I told him what was going on. He yelled at me to stay here and said he was going after Holmes. Scott had a gun. He said that Holmes had dropped it. Then we heard the door just now and hid again."

"No. No, he's got it wrong. Sherlock has not hurt _anyone_." John said, shaking his head.

"_He hurt_ _me_!" Rachel cried. Sara sobbed even harder.

"He did that to her?" Damon said, outraged. He pointed to Rachel.

"No." John said firmly.

"He did!" Rachel insisted, gritting her teeth. "It hurts, God, it hurts."

"_God dammit!"_ John roared. "No. Shut up, everyone. He would _never_ do this. Sherlock Holmes would never do this."

Damon looked at him, shaking his head. "Well he did."

John looked around the room. "How long ago did this happen?"

"Moments before you came through the door." Damon said, leaning over Rachel.

John ran to the wall that Damon had pointed at when he was explaining what happen and began to knock on it. He felt a solid thud and knocked again a few feet further to the left. Another solid thud. He went right, knocking hard. _Thud, thud, thud_… Then, a light thud. A _hollow _sounding thud.

John felt around the wall. He pushed against it to no avail. He was not Sherlock, he couldn't just deduce how the damn thing would work. John was positive that he had the right spot, he just didn't know how to get the door to open and there wasn't time to figure it out. With that he gave the hollow spot a good, solid kick. It groaned when he hit it. Again, he thrust forward, putting all his weight into the kick. The force jarred his knee and he felt the door giving way beneath him. He kicked again and again, each time feeling it come looser. Finally, with the last of his breath he ran at the spot, turned at the last moment and crashed against it with his shoulder. The impact made his arm go numb as the passage door gave way and John fell through it into a dark corridor.

The ground was stone, covered in dust. He scrambled to his feet, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flashlight. He scanned the cold grey floor and was relieved to see clear foot prints smattered through the dust, leading away down the endless, thin corrador. He took off at a run, following the prints. Fear was building in his heart and adrenaline coursed through his blood, making him feel wild. As he ran he calculated the possible scenarios that he could be about to encounter, prepping himself to react to each of them.

The thin, dark corridor split into two ways and John came to an abrupt halt. He scanned the ground again. Left, the prints went left. He ran for at least a hundred feet before having to skid to a stop. A stairway, going down. He quickstepped down it and was surprised when he splashed into almost ten inches of water. He was on the first floor of the house now. Parts of it were flooding. He followed the tunnel left, then right, then left again, splashing all the while through icy water. A long stretch of corridor dead ended. Obviously, this had to be the way out. John did his best not to second guess himself. What if he'd missed something and gone in the complete wrong direction?

He pointed the flashlight at the wall. A small vertical hand jutted out of the wall and navel height. John grabbed it and pulled left. The door was spring loaded and it was difficult for him to slide it open but he managed. When he stepped through he left go of the door and it slid closed again with a snap. Lights flickered on.

John looked around. He was in a massive garage with three cars inside and still ankle deep in water.

_Dammit Sherlock. Damn you_. John thought, struggling to contain the fear in his heart.

Something shiny caught his eye from in the water. John stooped to pick it up. A silver whistle. He'd thought it would be another Cluedo piece. John pocketed it anyways. At the end of the garage there was a door going out to the yard. The door was open and John ran to it.

Outside the black sky was the picture of pure chaos, pitching heavy drops of water and tiny stinging pieces of hail. John quickly became drenched. Ice white flashes of lighting shot down through the clouds, illuminating and giving depth to the treacherous night. The moon was lost somewhere above in the thick swirls of nimbus. The flashes came hundreds at a time, each in quick succession, lighting up the skies in an endless, beautiful and dangerous storm. Thunder crashed, shaking the heavens and earth with each colossal roar. If the moment had not been urgent, John would have loved to stand and watch it. The image of him and Sherlock viewing the lightning from the warm comfort of 221B flashed through his mind. He wished so much that they were there, at home. Looking out into the dastardly shadows, the needles of light, the maddening rain, John could only gaze in awe and pray that while running temptingly across the vast open ground that he would not be struck down.

The trail was clear and John took off at a run, following the prints across the yard. He guessed that it was around thirty six degrees. The cold clashed with the adrenaline coursing through John's body, making him numb inside and out.

It was a straight path across the yard where an intricate, decorative gate stood. John passed through it and into the woods on the other side, following the pathway. He was racing down a dark trail. He jumped over logs, ducked under branching and kept losing his footing every hundred feet or so. Lighting was flashing constantly, illuminating the forest in an eerie, dreamlike way. John was gasping and covered in mud by the time he got to the bottom of the hill. In front of him was the dark road. Across it was a small, dim yellow glow in the distance.

Squinting through the water, John realized that the glow was a light in a building and that building had to be the Reichenbach Outpost. John splashed his way across the street. As he neared the store he was able to see the gravel parking lot in the back of it and the long, narrow foot bridge that bridged the gab in the canyon. A massive bolt of lighting flashed in the sky, brightening the night and John's heart jumped when he saw two figures racing across the bridge. Thunder crashed violently and the air felt thick with static.

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled, running towards the bridge. The roar of the Reichenbach Falls was so loud he could barely hear himself. It was directly beside the foot bridge on the opposite side of the canyon. Another flash of lightning showed that the two figures were dashing off the other end of the bridge as John stepped onto it. He glanced over the edge and his stomach turned. It was at least a fifty foot drop into the river, from the bridge and maybe a sixty or seventy foot drop from the waterfall.

The bridge was heavy concrete and John slipped sideways as he ran, nearly sliding under the bridge's safety rail. For a terrifying, sickening moment he thought he would go over. The flashlight flew out of his hands and he reached out in the dark, catching the railing as his legs and torso slid under it. His feet were hanging over the edge. He hauled himself back up, taking a deep breath. John's legs were burning, the downpour was freezing and his breathing was uneven from running hard. It took everything John had to continue. He wanted so badly to just rest and breathe but there wasn't time. There just wasn't. Somewhere on the other side of that canyon there was a man with a gun, aiming to kill his only true friend in the world.

He pushed himself back into a run...

Sherlock dashed through the storm. He could barely see the rain was so thick. The world around him was treacherous. Lightning had struck the earth not twenty feet away from him as he ran and he could feel the electricity in the air. Scott Hawthorn was close on his tail as Sherlock sprinted across the bridge. In the distance, he thought that he had heard John call his name. His heart sank. It had not been his intention for John to be there, to witness what was inevitably going to happen.

Within moments, Sherlock had reached the end of the bridge and was sprinting up the trail. It was a winding way, all up hill. He took the right hand path where it split. It was a long stretch of open mud and granite.

As Sherlock ran another flash of lighting made him realize that the stretch was a dead end. It was a long, thick ledge with the river running beside. Sherlock lost his footing as he tried to stop and fell, sliding sideways. Directly beside him was river, ending with the waterfall that dropped into a black, thrashing pool sixty feet below.

Sherlock had slipped too far and too fast. He tumbled down with a yell, sliding into the river. His body was submerged and the water was so cold it felt hot. The current grabbed at him, pulling with all its might. He twisted under water, trying to reorient himself. He was being dragged backwards quickly. The flow was wicked strong but still shallow, only a few feet deep. As Sherlock neared the edge he stretched out, managing to grab onto a small boulder. He locked himself around it and pulled hard, choking on a mouthful of water. He struggled to pull himself to his feet, bracing himself against the current. He was knee deep and still holding onto the rock. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. Another foot and he would have gone over the edge. Another flash in the sky showed him the drop and he leaned away. The height was nauseating.

Wearily he turned. Sherlock pushed his hair out of his eyes, trembling. He looked up to see Scott Hawthorn standing on the bank not ten feet away. He level the gun, breathing heavily…

John hit the end of the bridge and leaped over the three steps, splashing water everywhere. He'd just seen Sherlock and his assailant dash up the path on the right. He followed, digging his feet into the muddy earth to get traction. Every bit of him was drenched to the bone and numb from the cold.

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled again, as he wove through the trail. The lightning struck like a heartbeat.

"JOHN! STAY BACK! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!" Sherlock yelled back. Even with the noise of the waterfall growing John realized Sherlock wasn't far. His heart leaped at hearing Sherlock's voice and the littlest bit of hope flickered in his heart. He was so close. So close… Just a few more steps. He had been less than a hundred feet behind them before. He rounded the bend.

Then, in that moment of fear, hope, exhaustion and unstoppable drive John's heart stopped. A sharp, unmistakable _crack_ shattered through the night.

"SHERLOCK!"John screamed.

John stumbled forward onto the slick, muddy ledge, terror coursing through his mind and body. He looked up in time to see the silhouette of a man with a gun. In front of that man, maybe ten feet ahead a cloaked silhouette waivered in the darkness. Lightning flashed and John felt a scream rip through his chest as Sherlock staggered backwards, knee deep in the water and on the very edge of death. With every ounce of energy John had he ran.

All noise vanished. The sound of the rain hitting the Earth, the thunder in the air and the crash of the waterfall. He saw Sherlock start to waiver and sink, falling…

Scott turned. There was a deep look of regret on his face. He saw John running for river, running for Sherlock as he stumbled backwards. Time slowed. Scott side stepped as John ran past him and drove the butt of the revolver down hard on the back of his head. John fell forward onto his knees and collapsed to the side as Sherlock disappeared over the edge of the falls into the raging, black pool below.


	9. Chapter 9 - Witness

**CHAPTER 9**

**Witness**

The headlines hit London within forty-eight hours and John Watson woke up in the hospital, three days later. There was a thick bandage wrapped around his head and the slightest noises were unbearably painful. Moving made him nauseous. Light made him sick. He struggled to get his bearings and tried to remember what had happened. Thankfully, Sargent Donovan had been there and she'd left a pile of newspapers and magazines on his bedside table. John reached out, pulling the pile onto his lap in the dimly lit, clinically clean room.

**Massacre at Roselander Mansion!**

John froze, staring at the title. His heart began pounding. He his hands shook as he flipped to the next headline.

**Mysterious Net Detective Sherlock Holmes Stands Accused of Cold Blooded Murder!**

"No." he whispered. His breathing was becoming staggered. He threw the paper aside and picked up a magazine.

**Where in the World is Sherlock Holmes?**

"No, no, no. Oh my god, no." John moaned, throwing the magazine aside. Everything came flooding back to him as he read the title on the cover of the last newspaper on his lap. His head felt like it was going to explode, the pain was so intense and John fell back onto his pillow. However bad his head was, it was nothing compared to the pain of the sinking, icy black hole that was opening inside his chest and dismantling his heart.

**FRAUD DETECTIVE AND SERIAL KILLER SHERLOCK HOLMES DEAD!**

John was beginning to hyperventilate. He watched his heart rate shoot up to a hundred an eighty on the monitor. _Sherlock. Dead._ The thought was surreal. Impossible. He felt his whole body getting cold. He gasped, trying to get air. John grabbed his head in his hands, his chest heaving. Pain and panic started to overwhelm him. He couldn't breathe. He wanted to scream, to sob, to break things, to do anything that would make it stop.

"Please, make it stop." He wailed, cradling his head in his hands. Starbursts of pain were shooting through his skull. John was dimly aware of two nurses running in. Of them talking to him. He couldn't hear what they were saying. He was being laid back; an oxygen mask was going over his face... His eyes were drooping… The world went dark.

At first his dreams were murky and unclear. His limbs felt heavy and he couldn't think. He faded in and out of sleep, only dimly aware that there were people who came to see him. Doctors, nurses, family and friends…. John was surrounded constantly as he drifted in and out of sleep. The dreams were vague and hard to understand but slowly, the fog disappeared. There was a small amount of pain, but not enough to wake him.

John was walking through the hallway at Roselander Mansion. The lights were flickering. He was only dimly aware that he was dreaming as he stepped through the last door at the end of the hall. The one with the crystal nob, at the end of the pearly white hallway alight with the warm glow of lighted glass on the ceiling.. It was startlingly vivid. Beautiful. John looked around. Standing in the center of the room, back turned, playing the violin was Sherlock. John couldn't see his face. He heard the music, the elegant, flawless music coming from the instrument.

"You have the resources. Catch him." Sherlock's voice echoed through the room, the deep melodic baritone that John was so familiar with.

John shook his head. "How? I don't know how, Sherlock. I'm not you. I can't do what you do. I just can't. I'm sorry." John said, stepping forward.

Sherlock turned to face him. His vivid, crystal clear eyes were sad. "You have everything you need. Solve it! Just think!" he snapped.

"I don't know _how_ to solve it!" John cried.

As John stared at Sherlock the familiar feeling of terror struck him. They were standing knee deep in crystal clear water, freezing cold water. John's heart was pounding. A vibrant spot of red blossomed on his flatmate's crisp white shirt and blood began to fall draining into the clear pool he stood in. Sherlock fell, his knees buckling under him. The terror and emotional pain was crippling. The image was so vivid. So real.

John sat up in bed, thrashing. The scream was still alive in his throat. He looked around. His clothes were sitting on a chair by the door. His head still hurt, but it wasn't sickeningly painful now. He sat up slowly, reached for the cup of water beside his bed and downed half of it. His mouth had been so dry, his back was stiff from lying so still and a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. He was alone.

And all John could feel was rage.

Somewhere out there, two murderers walked free. The murderer who had killed Sherlock and the one who had killed all the other people at Roselander Mansion. He wished so badly he'd just bit a little bit faster. If he'd just been a little bit faster…

John threw off the blanket, putting it out of his mind. Thinking about it would get him nowhere. He closed off his emotions, setting them aside. He reached inside him for the icy tranquility he'd had as a soldier. No matter what happened, John could find it. The emotionless mindset that allowed him to cope when he needed to. Allowed him to kill. Allowed him to survive. John looked out the window. Outside, the pitch black night was clear and starry. He took a deep breath, thinking of the task ahead.

He heard footsteps coming down the hall. Perhaps a nurse coming to check on him. John stayed sitting up, waiting. The door opened slowly and in walked a young man in sea foam green scrubs. His eyes widened when he saw that John was awake.

John squinted, confused. There was something off…

"Doctor Watson, you're_ not supposed to be up. You ought to lie back down." The man said, putting his hands on his hips. He stepped forward slowly.

John felt himself grow tense. The hair on the back of his neck rose.

"The gift of fear is one of the most incredible, natural internal functions that the brain is capable of," Sherlock had once said. It was a form of a brain function called thin-slicing. It involved your brain super calculating narrow windows of past experiences and projecting an instantaneous feeling. In this instance, the feeling was fear.

John didn't hesitate. He threw back the covers, jumped out of the hospital bed and as the man raised an arm John saw he was holding a thin, clear syringe. The man jabbed it straight forward toward John, who jumped back. He brought both hands up and in one fluid motion open palmed the back of the man's hand and the inside of his wrist at the same time in a scissoring motion. The man's wrist jerked and the syringe went flying across the room. John side stepped around his opponent, putting his right hand on the man's throat and his right leg behind the man's knees. He brought him to the ground quickly and took his back. Calmly, professionally, he sunk in a figure four choke and locked his guard around the man's waist. He was struggling fiercely at first as John held the choke. The man kicked, squirmed and grunted. He knocked over the table beside the bed and spilled the remained over the cup of water over both of them. Like a rat dying in the grip of a constrictor the man's struggles got weaker and weaker until he went limp in John's arms. The entire fight had taken less than thirty seconds. John got to his feet and gave the man a hard, angry kick in the ribs. He didn't budge.

The effort was too much. John sat down heavily. His body felt weak and his head was swimming from the effort. He wondered exactly how long he'd been asleep for and what had happened in that time. John checked the man's pulse. He was alive, but would be out cold for a while. He looked around the room until he found the syringe. Carefully he wrapped it in tissue paper and stuck it in his pocket. Then he patted down the unconscious man. He had nothing on him. No identification, nothing that would help John know where he had been sent from. John went to the chair in the corner of the room and dressed himself hastily. Obviously, someone was out to get him. Someone that knew there was one witness that would not be silenced.


	10. Chapter 10 - Retribution

**Chapter 10**

**Retribution**

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade never slept soundly. Not in all the years he had been on the police force had he gotten a decent night of sleep that wasn't the product of some over the counter pharmaceutical pill. Tonight he drifted in and out of his rest, the stress of work clinging to his body in the form of a headache. It had been exactly a week since Detective Inspector Marvin Ezell had called him, claiming that the man he so frequently consulted had turned out to be a mad killer who has slaughtered half a family and maimed the other half. Lestrade couldn't believe what he had been hearing. He went there, to South Brondette. It wasn't until Detective Inspector Ezell showed him the crime scene that Lestrade crumbled.

The evidence was overwhelming. One of Sherlock's coats, covered in Rachel Hawthorn's blood. A rope in the pocket with some of Elaine Hawthorn's hair wrapped around it. A heavy metal spanner with Sherlock's fingerprints on it that had been identified as the weapon that had killed Michael Hawthorn. Sara and Damon Hawthorn had been witnesses to Sherlock killing Daniel Hawthorn. Scott Hawthorn had been a witness to Sherlock attempting to strangle Elaine and Elaine had backed it up. Rachel had been in the ICU for two days but had come out and identified Sherlock as the man who had stabbed her.

Scott had then testified that Sherlock had chased him down the hill, across the bridge and that there, by the water's edge they had fought for control of the gun. Scott admitting to shooting Sherlock and watching him disappear over the falls, claiming self-defense.

"I was in fear for my life, and the lives of the people I loved. The man left me no choice." He had said when interviewed.

The shame was overwhelming. Lestrade could barely force himself to go back to working. The massacre had made almost worldwide news. People were offering obscene amounts of money to Lestrade to give interviews, all of which he declined.

Despite the fact that the evidence was damming, despite the deaths, fingerprints, testimony and blood there was _still_ a sliver a doubt in Lestrade's mind. There was one person who he hadn't spoken to yet. One person.

He had visited John Watson every day, praying that he would wake and shed any kind of new light on what had happened that night. John had been badly injured. Scott had claimed that when John had tried to disarm Sherlock the mad man had hit him on the back of the head and left him for dead outside the Reichenbach Outpost in the gravel parking lot. He was half drowned when he'd been rescued. Scott had claimed that John had saved his life, going after the two of them as Sherlock chased him through the woods. Every time Lestrade came to the hospital, John had been asleep. Friends and family had surrounded him constantly for the first few days. Every time he woke he was screaming, delusional, thrashing in bed and the nurses had to sedate him repeatedly to keep him from harming himself and others while his injuries healed.

Lestrade jerked upright in bed when he heard a fierce, urgent pounding at his door. He looked at the clock. Two thirty in the morning and someone was knocking. He threw off the covers, grabbed his coat and ran through the dark house. He threw open the door.

"John! What the hell_" he started to say as John pushed past him, stepped inside and closed the door. There was a fierce, wild look in his eyes.

"Hang on. Someone's just tried to kill me." John breathed, putting a hand up. He walked through the house and straight into the kitchen. John opened the fridge, grabbed the orange juice and poured himself a glass. He downed it in a few seconds and set it on the counter.

Lestrade stood at the counter, waiting.

"Whatever you've heard, it's wrong." John said, sitting at the kitchen table. "I read the news. It's all wrong. The bloke who…" he took a deep breath. "The bloke who shot him. It wasn't self-defense. He chased Sherlock out of the house."

"So what happened?" Lestrade demanded, crossing his arms.

"Moriarty. He set the whole thing up. He lured us there and had someone who must have looked a lot like Sherlock running around the house, killing people. Our phones were blocked, we were trapped there and everything happened so fast even Sherlock was having a hard time understanding. He's still out there, the man who killed Daniel and Michael and Mr. and Mrs. Roselander."

Lestrade stared at John for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. "Okay. What do you need?"

John's eyes were cold. "I'm going after him. I need to speak to Scott Hawthorn and I need information. I need you to look into any case file involved the Hawthorn family that happened around eight years ago. See if you can find anything at all. Something happened that involved that whole family. It was some kind of revenge plot against them and Moriarty twisted it to destroy Sherlock and his reputation. He sent someone to the hospital to kill me just now and it's probably not going to be long before he finds out I'm not dead. I also need to borrow a gun."

Lestrade took a deep breath. "You're sure about this?"

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't. I'm not Sherlock, I can't do what he does, but I have a shot at this. I think I can solve it."

"Kind of asking a lot."

"I'm going whether you help or not. You asked what I need and I'm telling you. This is what I need."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Come on." He said, gesturing down the hallway.


	11. Chapter 11 - Deduction

**Chapter 11**

**Deduction**

The sun was peaking over the horizon as John pulled up in front of the house labeled 596 Ballitoph Drive in South Brondette. It was a two story home with a veranda that wrapped around the deck and stone steps that led up to a beautiful hard wood door with carved a circle of crystal panes in the center. The air was thick with fog. John got out of the car, removed the gun from his coat pocket and strode up to the door. John's heart was pounding. He took a deep breath and cleared his thoughts before knocking hard three times. He stood back, holding the weapon behind his back. A moment later the door swung open. John quickly raised the gun and Scott Hawthorn froze.

"Doctor Watson."

"We need to talk." John's voice was cold. "May I come in? Mm?"

Scott stared at him, taking in the stoic, pained intensity in John's eyes. He tried to think of something rational to say, something to calm the deadly, angry, heartbroken man standing before him. It wasn't the first time Scott had stared down the barrel of a gun. It had happened enough in the last week but when adrenaline forces the forebrain to shut down all logic and ability to reason goes out the window things down always come out like one would want them to.

"You're supposed to be_uh… "

"Dead? Yes and I'm not." John asked, striding forward.

Scott closed his eyes, regretting his choice of words. He put his hands up as John raised the gun to his head. He shivered and took a breath.

"I am being blackmailed." He said, eyes still closed. "Maxime is alive and if I didn't do what I did she would have been tortured. She is carrying our child. I am so sorry. Please, don't do this. Please." He held his breath, waiting.

John sighed, rage pooling in his stomach as the words sunk in. He stared at the man for a long moment, trying to decide whether he was telling the truth or not. Judging by the man's shaking hands and scrunched expression of fear John elected to believe him. "So what now?" he said bitterly.

Scott opened his eyes and took a breath. "They_ they will see on the surveillance cameras that you have been here. I have to call them. If I don't tell them and they find out they will hurt her. Badly. I don't know where he is keeping her. You should go to the police and tell them that someone is after you. You should stay protected. They will be coming for you." Scott said desperately.

"You're a coward."

"They weren't expecting you to be out of the hospital for a few days yet."

"_They_ sent someone to kill me in my sleep."

"The_ police_ didn't have anyone there to guard you?" Scott asked, squinting at him.

"If by guard you mean assassinate_" John looked down. His phone buzzed. He grabbed it out of his pocket, keeping the gun leveled at the man's head. He looked at the text.

_Call me. I've got something. –G_

John sighed. "Why was Mr. Roselander's body moved to London?" he asked. He wanted to hear the man say it.

Scott didn't hesitate. "To lure Sherlock onto the case_ that much has become apparent…"

John nodded gravely. To his surprise, Scott continued.

"The better question is _how_ was he moved. That's the one I'm still puzzling over."

John's eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean _how_?"

"Sorry_ You didn't check what the weather had been like that morning? We were snowed in up here for several hours that morning and a person can't exactly just stick a body on a train and send it down. No way to drive, couldn't take the train… I haven't stopped wondering how he was moved in the first place."

"Might have been a bit more helpful if you'd said so before, you complete and utter pisspot. Give me something to go with." John said, looking up at Scott. "Anything. The man who maimed your family and is holding that woman. You said you don't know where 'he' is keeping her. Give me his name."

"He changed it. I don't know who he is now. It was Sam Mason, years ago. I'm not a stupid man. I am a businessman. I used to be a doctor. I have done everything in my power to stop this from happening. I have no control now. I'm just a new tool they picked up. I have nothing, I know nothing. I am a tool."

"Doctor? You used to be a doctor?" John asked, squinting. He'd remembered someone saying something about the 'Family Doctor'.

"I gave up the practice."

"Why?"

"I falsified x-rays and destroyed the man's life. I felt guilty. I quit. I never believed him capable of any of this but eight years later, here I am."

"You haven't tried tracking him down?"

"I have tried everything that I could think of. I am bound by their threats."

"Is there _anything__"

Scott put a hand to his forehead. "Doctor Watson you should really_"

"SHUT UP." John yelled. He felt white hot hatred surge in his heart as he stared at the man's gaunt, pale, pathetic face. He could kill the man. Right there, right then. The man who had murdered Sherlock. He could end his life.

Slowly, Scott sunk to his knees. It was as if he could read John's thoughts on his face. John's hand tensed. His chest swelled with a slow, deliberate breath. He exhaled, and lowered the gun. It took immense willpower. John backed up slowly. Scott didn't move. He stayed, kneeling with his hands in the air until John had driven out of sight.

A mile or so up the road John pulled over and had a small panic attack. As he struggled to get his breathing under control the phone began ringing and he answered.

"Mmm?" John grunted, answering it.

Lestrade sounded tired. "Eight years ago Michael Roselander had an accident in the Reichenbach Outpost. He sued the owner. Basically the whole family was involved in some way. Based on the bias, I don't think that most of it was even legal. I don't know if that has anything to do with all of it, but that's the only thing I've found from eight years ago that involves the whole family."

"Including Scott Hawthorn?"

"He testified in court that his brother had broken his ribs."

John nodded, starting to understand. "Got it. What happened to the owner?" John asked, holding his head in one hand.

"No idea. Can't find any record of him anywhere."

"Can you find me any pictures?"

"Old ones maybe. It's like he's disappeared."

"Old ones will do. As soon as possible. Thank you." John sat back in his seat, trying to focus. He thought back to the day that Sherlock had discovered something wrong with the suicide. He's been pouring over recent suicide cases for a paper he was writing on variety of ways a person could do themselves in. An anonymous commenter on their blog had talked him into it a week before after telling Sherlock how much he had enjoyed the one on two hundred and forty three types of tobacco ash.

"Stupid." John muttered, realizing who the anonymous commenter must have been.

He searched the weather report on his phone on the day of Mr. Roselander's death, confirming that the pass had been snowed in during the time that they body was being transported.

_If Sherlock had known this… This one detail… That could have changed everything… _John thought, feeling his heart sink. He gritted his teeth and pushed the thought away. _How, how could that have been done? It's not like a person could easily bring a body onto a train. Where would a person put it? Sit it up in a chair and hope people thought it was asleep? _John almost smiled at the thought.

"Impossible to have driven. Had to take the train. Can't take a body on the train though, but there's no other way..."

Suddenly, it clicked in John's mind.

"_There's a stowaway on the train but he's not doing anything about it." _Sherlock had said.

A stowaway.

John sat upright. His heart was pounding. "When the train stops, the conductor announces the stop over the loud speaker. Then he opens the doors and step onto the platform to blow his whistle and usher people on board. Except the doors open from both sides. Someone waiting on the opposite side could have hauled the body onto one of the end cars and locked it in the bathroom. It would be a bold, dangerous move, but it could be done." He said aloud.

That was theoretically the only way John could think that the body could have been transported to London that morning, but what if the conductor wasn't as nice as he had been the day that John and Sherlock had ridden? What if he'd gone to kick the "Stowaway" off? There was no guaranteeing that the conductor would allow every stowaway that hid on his train every time. The odds of that were incredible. Unless...

_When you've rule out everything else, what remains, however improbable it may be, must be true._ Sherlock's voice echoed through his head.

There was no other way the body could have been transported. Moriarty's network was smooth. John didn't doubt that they would be good enough to smuggle a body onto a train. He _did_ doubt that Moriarty would risk the conductor discovering the body. John tried to recall the conductor's face, but couldn't. He's been a tall thin man with a coat, with curly hair….

Without another thought John threw the car in gear, popped the clutch so hard the tires screeched and took off towards the station. It wasn't much of an idea but it was something. He didn't have anything better. Doubt ate at his mind as he drove, grief started to spill from the cage where he had locked away his heart.

"_Serial killers are hard, have to wait for them to make a mistake."_ Sherlock had said.

John shook his head. His voice had sounded so real, so clear. It was as if he were sitting right beside him. John turned and glanced into the empty back seat, just to be sure.

"Houston, we _may_ have a mistake." John muttered to himself. Still, he was filled with doubt. "I don't know how you were always so bloody sure of everything all the time."

The drive back down the canyon and into the town passed in a blur. Before John knew it he was walking through the doors of the train station and had absolutely no idea where he was going to go or what he was going to do. He stopped, staring up at the board listing the schedule. The morning train from London to Brondette was set to return at five in the evening. John wondered if the same conductor was on that route. From what he knew, an experienced conductor would have a schedule that mostly stayed the same. The newer you were on the railroad, the more erratic your schedule would be.

John looked around the station, watching people come and go. It only took a few moments to identify the doorway into the employee's area. Casually, he walked through it. They was a thirty foot long grey hall that opened into a dingy looking, dimly lit meeting room. The ground was white linoleum that looked as if it hadn't been swept or mopped in a while. John passed a room full of lockers and another room with a few sofas and a kitchen area. Another hallway adjacent to the one he was passing through led to the employee bathrooms. He passed a water fountain and the employee computer terminals.

The meeting room had a large oval table, a dozen chairs and dirty blue green carpet that was littered with bits of paper. The trash can was full. A fire extinguisher in the corner of the room was covered in dust. On the table there were a few binders, an abandoned water bottle and someone's coat. John grabbed the binder labeled Daily Operating Rules Log and began to flip through it. He didn't know much about the railroad but could see from the dates on each page that it was a booklet of instructions formatted and amended specifically for the routs that the conductors and engineers were set to drive each day. He saw that day's log for the ride from Brondette to London and back. The conductor's name was Russell Coppinger. He flipped backwards through the log, back to the day that he and Sherlock had traveled. The train had been conducted by a man named Jim Gary. Roy Brooks had been the engineer on duty.

John flipped through the booklet back and looked through the routs from that day again. Jim Gary was not on duty again until tomorrow. He flipped back to the evening of the murders. Roy Brooks had been on duty during the time that Sherlock and John had been at Roselander Mansion. Jim Gary's last run for the day had been the one John and Sherlock had been on. He'd been off duty at the time of the murders.

John breathed deeply. It was possible that it could be a coincidence. John kept the thought in mind as he removed the pages from the booklet, folded them neatly and tucked them away in his jacket pocket.

John grabbed the next binder. It was a listing of every employee working out of that station. He flipped through until he found Jim Gary. John walked to one of the employee terminals and swiveled the mouse. A screen came up asking for a log in code. John noticed a number written in blue boldface on a sticky pad, attached to the bottom of the terminal. He inputted it and hit enter. The computer logged him into the system. John smiled, just a little. He punched in the man's full name and employee identification number as listed on the sheet and hit enter.

An information screen popped up. John scanned it slowly, searching…. Then, he saw it.

_91 Waterthrush Lane, Brondette NE._

"Fantastic." John breathed. He was astonished how easy that had been. He grabbed a pen off the table, jotted down the address on the back of one of the papers he'd taken and hurried back down the hall to the front of the station. He picked up the phone and called Lestrade. It went to voicemail.

"Greg, I may have found what we're looking for." John said, speaking loud and clear. "The address I will be going to is number ninety one Waterthrush Lane in North East Brondette. The man who lives there is named Jim Gary. He's an employee for the railroad and he was on duty the morning that Roselander's body was moved from Brondette to London. The road through the pass going from Brondette to Hilmerch was closed off with snow during the time the body was moved. The railroad was the only way to have moved the body. He was also on duty when Sherlock and I rode up to the mansion. He was off duty at the time of the murders. Don't call me, just send back up."

John hung up and got back in the car. He entered the address on the portable GPS attached above the radio. It was about forty kilometers from where he was and looked to be basically out in the middle of nowhere. "Great. That's really good." John muttered to himself, starting the engine. Pure determination filled his mind and body as he drove.


	12. Chapter 12 - Redemption

**Chapter 12**

**Redemption**

The sky had grown bright and was littered with sculpted cumulous clouds. John wove down a single lane country road. The driveways were so long, the mailboxes so few and the wood was so thick that John was worried he might miss his turn. The street signs had gotten smaller and smaller the deeper he'd gotten into the area. Light dappled the ground though the branches of the bare, hibernating trees. John drove slowly, looking out for some indication that he was even on the right road. Up ahead John saw headlights and pulled over, letting a stout, light green four door Honda pass him. John turned his head away and lowered his cap as the car passed, not wanting to be seen.

After what had seemed like an eternity John saw the mailbox marked #91 and turned into the long, wavy driveway. He drove until the house came into view and put the car in neutral, coming to a stop. He let his foot off the break and slowly rolled backwards down the hill until he was sure that the car was hidden from sight. With that, he put the emergency brake on, checked to make sure his weapon was secure and got out of the car. As he approached the house he checked to make sure his phone was on silent.

It was a single story, classic country home that in its hay day had must have been beautiful. Time and neglect had worn the place down. It had eaten away at the paint, tarnished the doorknobs, left cobwebs in the veranda rafters and let the yard become an untamed mess. There were two cars parked in the grass. The windows on the house were clean, the porch was swept and the pathways from the driveway to the front door was clear. It was obvious that the person living here didn't completely neglect the place. John stepped onto the porch and approached the front door. He drew his weapon and reached for the nob. It was unlocked.

John gritted his teeth and swung it open. It creaked loudly, making John wince. Slowly, he crept inside. The entryway was small and led into a commonwealth sitting room. It had a blue sofa, a black coffee table, a bookshelf and television and horrid purple and orange curtains with blue flowers. The floor creaked as he walked. John felt like each step he took was thunderous.

His finger was steady on the trigger as he swung around the corner. Light poured through the window. John looked out into the back yard. Even more overgrown than the front. He stepped through the kitchen and looked around. There was an empty pan sitting on the stove. John stared at it for a moment then reached his hand out.

A chill went down his spine when he felt the heat coming off it. The stove was off. There was a carton of eggs on the counter. John spun around. The house was eerily quiet. John's eyes narrowed. Carefully he stepped back through the living room to the front door and closed it, ensuring that if anyone came in he would hear them.

Quickly and efficiently he began to search as he had been trained to, keeping his head on a swivel all the while. He checked the closet by the front door, all through the sitting room, in the pantry, in the dining room adjacent to the sitting room and even looked under the coffee table in front of the sofa. When he was certain that the front of the house was empty he stepped into the hallway. He flipped on the lights. It had four rooms, two on each side. The first room was locked. He looked at it. There was a deadbolt above the first lock. He unlocked it and tried the nob again. Still locked. This he would need a key for. Lightly, he knocked. There was no answer. He took a step forward, ready to move onto the next room and froze, listening.

He heard a very light knock. He turned back to the door and knocked again. He waited. Another light knock back. John's heart rate jumped. He wanted to say something but didn't dare until he knew the house was clear. He turned around. The door directly behind him was unlocked. He swung it open. A bathroom with a clear shower curtain. Nothing there.

The door on the right hand end was open halfway. Weapon raised, he stepped up to it.

John stuck his foot our and gave the door a push. It swung open wide and he stepped in, sweeping the gun across. A twin bed in the corner of the room was unmade. There were clothes littering the floor. John doubted that the murdered who maimed the Hawthorn family that night would be one to hide inside closets, but he wasn't prone to leaving any stone unturned. He walked towards the closed closet door. A quick glance behind him told him that no one was there, standing in the doorway, sneaking up behind him. He slid the closet door open to find_

Trousers, shirts, a bathrobe…. John realized he'd been holding his breath and exhaled slowly.

A gentle creak coming from behind John made him whip around, pointing the gun at the open bedroom door. There was no source to the sound… John stepped out of the bedroom and reached for the door opposite of it. It was unlocked. He swung it open and stepped inside. Empty. It was an office. John looked around.

John remembered the green car who had passed him on the way and wondered if that could have been the person could have been Jim Gary. The house was seemingly empty. He'd checked every place that a man of that size could have hidden, save for behind the two locked doors, both of which looked like they could only be opened from the outside.

John went back to the door he'd heard the knocking come from. Unlike Sherlock, he did not carry a number of lock picks on her person at all times. He holstered his gun, trying to think of how to proceed. He knocked on the door again, louder this time.

"Hullo? Maxime Roselander?" he called, through the door. There was a frantic thumping in answer. John's heard leaped.

"Just hang on, I'm going to get you out." John called. He ran back to the study and began rifling through the drawers, looking for the spare key. It was something that Sherlock had taught him. A man carried his important keys on his person at all times and always had a spare hiding somewhere. The most likely place would be the office. At this point, John thought that the odds were good that the man driving away had been Jim Gary. He slid open the shallow drawer in the middle of the desk and reached inside. Something metal slid under his fingers. He pulled it forward. It was a key.

John hurried back to the door and quickly inserted the key into the lock, giving it a twist. He reached for the nob just as a voice behind him cried_

"_Stop!" _

John whipped around. Running towards him from through the kitchen with both hands up with a tiny, thin faced blond woman with a big round belly and limp blonde hair. She had a look of horror in her eyes. In the same instant, the door that John had just unlocked flew open and a tall man with dark curly hair shoulder checked John, slamming him into the opposite wall. John tried to swear all that he could manage was a strangled gasp. The wind had been knocked out of him. The man grabbed John by the shoulders and threw him across the kitchen floor as the woman screamed. She turned and ran.

John reached for his weapon, drawing it and firing as Jim Gary kicked. John fired three rounds. Two of them hit the big man in the shoulder, the other hit him in the arm. The top of Jim Gary's foot caught John's wrist, sending the gun flying. It hit a cabinet and discharged. John didn't have time to think about where the bullet had gone. He log rolled, hitting Jim Gary's shins and toppling him over backwards. The tall man grunted as he hit the ground. John scrambled to his feet and searched the ground for his gun. It was landed in the living room. He jumped over the counter and landed on the coffee table. It snapped under John's weight and he fell forward onto the ground.

Jim Gary got to his feet, swearing in a deep, harsh voice. He dove at John as John tried to get to his feet. John stepped back and brought a knee up, catching the big man on the chin. Jim Gary swung a hard uppercut into the side of John's face and a burst of light flashed in John's eyes. He stumbled backwards into the kitchen again and the man jumped on top of him. Now John managed to swear loudly before Jim Gary reached out a massive dinner plate sized hand and wrapped it around John's throat, squeezing.

John grabbed at one of the man's fingers, pulling it back. Blood was gushing from the man's open wounds. He saw that Jim Gary had blood matted in his hair as well. John twisted but the tall man was stronger than he looked and pinned him easily, tightening him grip and grabbing one of John's wrists with his other hand. It didn't matter that he'd been shot three times. John had seen men continue fighting after being shot five or six times. It wasn't uncommon. Jim Gary would be likely die in the next twenty minutes or so without medical attention. John struggled like an animal, writhing and kicking. He was trying so hard to escape the hold but it was useless. Jim Gary had long arms and the reach made it difficult for John to do much at this point. At least if he died the woman would be free and the murderer would die too… That was all he had wanted really….

John felt himself weakening. He saw that the tile on the floor was a dirty, sea foam green.

_Odd thing to notice._ John thought. He looked at the man who was killing him and wondered briefly how any of the people in that mansion could have mistaken this man for Sherlock. This mad had a pale, thin face with dark curly hair and absolutely none of Sherlock's cutting intelligence in his eyes. He didn't have Sherlock's mouth or even close to his nose. His body was taller, thicker, more sturdy. He had none of Sherlock's grace. John felt himself fading, relaxing.

_It's fine. It will all be fine._ He thought. His eyes fluttered, starting to close.

Out of the corner of his eye John saw a shadow pass overhead and heard a sickening crack. Jim Gary's grip loosened and John took in a gasping breath. He rolled backwards as the big man went limp, sliding down and falling beside the stove. Blood was pouring down his face.

John felt himself choking and heaving but there was nothing in his stomach to throw up. His spit onto the kitchen floor, leaning to the side.

"_John? John! Are you alright?"_ a voice said. Hands grabbed his shoulders firmly, helping him sit up. John coughed.

"_Fine_," he rasped, forcing himself to look up. His mouth dropped open. Time stopped. John was scared to move, breathe or speak. He gritted his teeth and began to hyperventilate as he stared into Sherlock's worried grey-green eyes. He could see that John was struggling to overcome an overwhelming level of emotion. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"How did you get here before me?" he asked. His expression was bemused. "How are you here at all?"

"I should be asking you the same thing_" John's voice was a horse whisper. He was breathing hard. "_you complete and utter _dickhead_."

"Ah," Sherlock looked deeply uncomfortable. "I apologize for that. You were supposed to remain subdued for another day or so until I had_"

"_Subdued_?" John hissed, sitting up. Sherlock leaned back, looking alarmed.

"Can I explain?" Sherlock asked anxiously. "Perhaps after I phone Lestrade and_"

"He's on his way, you clod. I called him hours ago. Unlike you I call the police _before_ I break into a home and_"

"You are angry with me." Sherlock stared blankly.

"Mmm? Brilliant deduction. Yes I am. _Of course_ I'm angry. You_ do you have _any_ idea what_" John's voice cut off as his eyes filled with tears and he struggled to take in a painful breath. He looked away, breathing hard.

Sherlock stared at him, the alarmed expression returning to his face. He stood, went to the cupboard, set the gun on the counter and pulled out a clean glass. He proceeded to fill it with water and set it on the ground beside John. He stood back, waiting. John glanced down at the water, looked up at Sherlock and let out a bitter laugh. He looked away again.

"I thought_" he started, trying to force out the words through the wave of overwhelming emotions. "I thought you were dead. I really did."

"I know and I'm sorry. You were _supposed_ to be kept out cold for another day or so until I'd solved the case. I had a dozen of Mycroft's men stationed at that hospital and a man there to administer a sedative if you woke up for too long. The _purpose_ was to keep you from thinking that I was dead. How did you get out?"

John thought back to the man he'd choked out and left lying on the ground with most likely fractured ribs.

"Hmm." He said, grimacing as he thought about it.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "What did you do?"

"Hang on," John said, looking around. "Where did the woman go? Was that Maxime Roselander?"

Sherlock nodded. "I met her on the way in and gave her my keys. She's locked herself inside the car. I told her that if she saw the train conductor come out of the house she was to drive away immediately. If not, wait there."

"Okay." John said, nodding.

"So, what_" Sherlock started to ask again.

"I _may_ have damaged the man who was supposed to be sedating me. In my defense, I thought he was trying to kill me." John admitted.

"After that?"

"I just left out the back door. Borrowed some supplies from Lestrade and went to see the man who _shot_ you off the edge of a waterfall_"

"Who, by the way, saved my life in doing so." Sherlock paused. "You didn't kill him_ I hope?"

"I nearly did." John said sternly, glaring at Sherlock. He got to his feet. "Then he told me that the mountain pass was closed off with snow during the time the body was moved. I thought that the only way to have moved the body was by train but that was impossible. Then I remembered that if you've ruled out every other option, whatever is left, no matter how impossible it may seem_"

"Must be true. Brilliant." Sherlock said, smiling at him.

John huffed. "So, I went to the train station and checked out the operations log, got onto the computer, found Jim Gary's address and drove here. How did you figure it out?"

Sherlock's cheeks turned faintly pink. "I have to admit, your way was_ simpler. You remember the tetrafluoroethane? I was able to trace it back to the railroad. That's when I made the connection."

John stared at Sherlock. He was dressed in his usual black trousers, crisp white shirt and long wool coat. Sherlock stared back. His eyes were searching.

"I'm sorry." He said. "Once I realize what was happening, really realized there was no time to find you. I had to act. I found Scott up stairs with Elaine. She woke up and was convinced that I had attacked her. I realized what Moriarty's angle was. To destroy my reputation. He unjammed the phones and texted Scott, threatening him. Maxime would have been killed if I had lived. I pitched a quick plan to him. I would die and go after Maxime from behind the grave. Moriarty would think he had won. I would solve the case, bring her back, she would testify as witness against Jim Gary and everything would be fine."

"You were shot off a waterfall." John said, shaking his head.

"If I _had_ been shot, that fall may have killed me. As it is, I was not shot. Scott fired two rounds past me and I pretended to fall over backwards. It was a sixty foot drop into a cold pool and you were not the only one who had followed us down there. This man was there too. We needed _him_ to witness my death." Sherlock said, giving Jim Gary a kick. He groaned.

"Good. Alive." Sherlock said.

"Erm, why was he locked in the other room?" John asked.

"Maxime had managed to hit him over the head when he came in to her room. She locked him in there and was in the middle of cooking her own breakfast when you showed up. She was going to eat and then call the police. Your presence scared her and she hid behind the blinds and went out the front door when you walked past her."

There was a loud whipping noise coming from outside. A helicopter. John sighed with relief.

"Huh." John said, wondering how he could have missed the woman standing behind the god awful purple and orange curtains. "You had time to ask her all of that when you saw her running from the house?"

Sherlock ruffled his hair. "She's pregnant. She was hungry. The eggs are sitting on the counter." Sherlock explained, pointing at the carton sitting out next to the pan.

"The pan was warm when I got here." John remembered.

"I know you would have been looking for a large man, not a five foot tall woman. You wouldn't have checked behind the curtains. Only place she could have hidden that you wouldn't have noticed."

John nodded. "Okay, I can see it. Why'd she come back?"

"She heard you call her name perhaps?"

"I did call her name."

"It's a good thing we got here when we did. The phone lines are down. He's got the car keys. He has a cell phone. It didn't take him long to wake up. She would have panicked when she realized there was no one she could call and he most likely would have broken down the door by then."

John and Sherlock jumped when the front door crashed open. The both turned to see Detective Inspector Lestrade lowering his weapon as he stared at Sherlock open mouthed. He glanced down at the man on the floor.

"Jim Gary?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock nodded. Lestrade barked orders at the officers who had come in with him and they moved to get him. John and Sherlock stepped into the living room to let them through. Lestrade stared at Sherlock, shaking his head.

"You bastard." He said, looking irritated.

"Sorry Inspector. It was necessary. All of it." Sherlock replied smoothly, hands behind his back.

"What happened?" Lestrade snapped.

"To sum it up, Scott Hawthorn and Maxime Roselander were riding the train back from a weekend away and happened to be on the same train as Jim Gary. Jim Gary recognized Scott and started stalking Maxime. He kidnapped her and didn't know what to do with her. He tried having Mr. Roselander dig up the evidence against the Hawthorns that would help him get his life back but Mr. Roselander failed. Jim Gary sought help with his revenge plot and was put in touch with our very own Consulting Criminal. Moriarty was interested. He saw a fun opportunity to kill me and ruin my reputation. He directed Jim Gary. Mr. Roselander killed himself of his own free will but he did it in the wrong place. He was supposed to kill himself in London. Sentiment got the better of him. That's where Moriarty made his mistake, letting Jim Gary take the body on the train. Moriarty needed me to be on the case."

"You weren't though. We thought it was a normal suicide." Lestrade said, putting up his hands.

"Yes. An anonymous commenter on John's blog talked me into doing a suicide study. I'm guessing that was Moriarty after realizing that you idiots hadn't noticed the unusual circumstances of the death. I can just see him face-palming…."

"The rest of it was just a game of cat and mouse." John muttered, looking around the room. "He used a lot of people and a big house to play puppet master."

Lestrade looked disgustedly at the unconscious, bloody man being removed from the house.

Sherlock reached for his phone and called Scott as John went outside. John ran a hand through his hair, thinking. He was going his best to cope with the overwhelming emotions assaulting him from every angle but there was no way around it. Losing Sherlock had been perhaps the most traumatic thing that had ever happened in his life and he was going to need to get over it. John couldn't recall a time in his life that he had ever felt out of control the way he had from the time he'd woken up in the hospital until he realized that Sherlock was alive. He'd felt wild in a way that made him sick to think about. He'd come very close to killing two innocent people. The thought made him shudder.

Time passed as more police officers showed up on scene. Sherlock had several loud, rude words with Detective Inspector Marvin Ezell that made John smile. Lestrade looked pleased. Maxime Roselander was taken away in an ambulance. She'd become hysteric. A couple of reporters showed up and spoke to Sherlock. John leaned against the railing. His body grew heavy as the adrenaline left him and his mind began to wander. He closed his eyes, listening to the scene around him. He felt someone put a blanket around his shoulders and glanced up to see Sherlock walked away. John breathed evenly, tired enough to relax but not enough to sleep.

He felt a hand rest gently on his shoulder and looked up. Sherlock was staring down at him.

"You're sure you're alright?" he asked quietly, letting his hand fall.

John chuckled lightly. "Never been better." His stomach growled loudly. He wanted to stand but was afraid his legs wouldn't hold him.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "When was the last time you've eaten?" He looked John over.

_Trembling. Heightened anxiety. Exhaustion. Still recovering from injury. In pain. Weak._ Sherlock thought, staring at him. He felt a wave of emotion come over him. Sentiment. Caring.

Carefully, he reached out and grabbed both of John's wrists, pulling him to his feet. John swayed from the effort and Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist and kept hold on his other arm. John looked up at him. His eyes were grateful.

A bright flash made both of them turn. Another flash.

John and Sherlock spoke at the same time.

"Piss off!" John snapped at the photographer.

"Have a bit of respect!" Sherlock said, outraged. He let go of John, his cheeks colored.

The photographer darted away like a startled deer.

Lestrade sniggered, walking up to them. "Good luck ever hearing the end of _that_ photograph after it hits the news."

John shook his head. "Whatever."

"No, we're not_" Sherlock started to say, blushing deeper. He stopped himself when John looked at him askew, one eyebrow high on his forehead.

"_Now _you care if people talk." John said, bemused.

Sherlock looked aloof, made a complicated hand gesture and turned to walk away. Lestrade raised both eyebrows at John.

John shrugged.

"Try and get him to lie low for a few days while we sort this out," Lestrade said, crossing his arms. "It's going to take some time."


	13. Chapter 13 - The Clown of Northampton

**Chapter 13**

**The Clown of Northampton**

Four hours later a cab pulled up beside the curb at 221B. John and Sherlock got out. They hadn't spoken a word in over an hour. Not since dinner when reality had sunk in for John and he'd lost it, verbally attacking Sherlock with a detailed account of exactly how he'd felt believing that Sherlock was dead. He ranted for a good five minutes not caring that every person in the restaurant had stopped eating to listen to him yell.

When John had run out of words he stood, staring at Sherlock. He'd expected some kind of cold, cutting retort. He'd expected Sherlock to brush it off without caring. He was shocked to find Sherlock completely speechless, staring back at John with a look of hurt in his eyes that John would have never believed Sherlock to be capable of.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered. He looked away, got to his feet and walked out of the restaurant. John took a deep breath and an immense wave of guilt had swept over him.

Now Sherlock unlocked the door and stepped inside. He didn't meet John's eyes when John passed him quickly. He stood watching as his friend padded up the stairs. Sherlock heard his bedroom door close with a snap. He took a breath.

Mrs. Hudson hurried around the corner. She was carrying a damp dish towel. She stopped walking when she saw Sherlock. His expression was uncomfortable as he waited to be yelled at. Instead, Mrs. Hudson let out a piercing, overjoyed shriek and threw her arms around his waist. Sherlock chuckled, relieved.

She stepped back and smacked him across the arm with the dish towel. "You terrible man!" she yelled. "You couldn't have bothered to call and tell me? Your brother came here three days ago to tell me what was happening! William Sherlock Scott Holmes!"

Sherlock jerked at hearing his full name. "Have you been speaking to my mother?" he asked, frowning at her.

She ignored him. "What about John?" Her face was worried.

"He's_ upset with me." Sherlock said, looking down. "He expressed that _quite_ clearly over dinner. I never meant for him to even become _conscious_ until it was over with."

Mrs. Hudson looked disappointed in a parental way. "You broke his heart, how do you expect him to feel?"

Sherlock groaned. "_If_ there had been any other way to do what needed to be done I would have chosen that way. As it is, there was no other way and I made a sincere effort to ensure that John would wake up and I would alive. Instead, he _broke_ the man who Mycroft sent to keep him sedated until I had returned. Do you understand? I _tried_."

Mrs. Hudson patted his arm sympathetically. "He'll forgive you dear."

Sherlock looked down at Mrs. Hudson with pleading eyes. "I find things like this_ difficult. To say the least."

"You already said you're sorry I hope?"

Sherlock nodded and threw out his hands. "More than _twice_. I thought that would surely convey the level of regret I feel."

"Then don't say anything else. Go up there and comfort him." Mrs. Hudson said, shrugging. "It's all you _can_ do really."

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. "How_"

"No, don't ask me. You know him best. Go." She pointed towards the stairs. Sherlock sighed.

He went upstairs and heard the shower running. Sherlock waited impatiently, trying to find something to occupy his time. He built a fire, cleaned up the kitchen and paced around the room, trying to think of things to say. He sat down in front of the fire, staring at the crackling, dancing light. Time passed. Dimly, Sherlock was aware that John had finished his shower and gone up stairs. Finally, when he'd decided on what to say he stood.

His heart was pounding hard. Timidly he tapped on John's door. The lamp was lit inside but there was only silence.

"John?" He called, knocking again. Silence. Sherlock reached for the opened the door. John was lying on his back in bed, shirtless with green cotton pajama pants on. His eyes were closed. One arm rested across his stomach and the other lay at his side. Sherlock frowned.

"John?" Sherlock asked again quietly. _Well. What now?_ He wondered. He turned to leave the room but stopped. He didn't want to go back down stairs. He didn't want to be alone. He turned back, wondering how mad John would be. He was already angry. He considered whether it would matter if he were a bit angrier.

Sherlock stepped back through the door, closed it behind him and walked to the edge of John's bed. He sat down and removed his shoes and shirt. The bed was unmade and the comforter was balled up at John's feet. Sherlock reached down, grabbed the blanket and tugged it over John.

John lay perfectly still, wondering if Sherlock was really doing what he thought it was. He'd heard Sherlock knock and ignored him on purpose. He'd heard him come in and close the door. He'd felt him sit on the edge of the bed and now felt the comforter being pulled over him. John tried to keep his breathing even. From behind closed eyes he noticed when the room darkened. He felt Sherlock's weight shifting carefully on the bed and felt heat very close to his body.

"I just_ don't want to be alone." Sherlock whispered so quietly that it was barely audible. John's eyes popped open. He stared at the ceiling in the darkness and took a breath.

"Okay." He whispered back.

For a while John lay awake, thinking. He wondered if Sherlock was asleep. His breathing sounded slow and even. John's eyes closed. He felt his body relaxing.

"I'm not angry." John said quietly, half asleep.

Sherlock didn't reply verbally. Instead, he waited until he was sure that John was fully asleep before reaching out. He wrapped an arm around the John's waist, pulling him close.

The next day Sherlock rose early. He had to untangle himself from John's body with care. At dawn Sherlock had woken to find that the gentle hold he'd fallen asleep in had turned into a tight knot of arms and legs. John had his head pillowed on Sherlock's chest and was breathing evenly. Sherlock laid there for a while, analyzing the contact between them. John's skin was warm against his. It was unorthodox and interesting.

_Unexpectedly pleasant._ Sherlock thought as he buttoned his shirt. Sherlock felt John tug the covers up to his chin. He didn't say anything. Sherlock glanced down at John but his eyes were closed.

He trotted into the kitchen and smiled to find that Mrs. Hudson had already set out a tea tray on the table. He stoked the fire and sat down with his laptop and hot cuppa to read the news.

**NET DETECTIVE SHERLOCK HOLMES TOOK THE FALL OF A LIFETIME! LITERALLY!**

Sherlock smiled. It was Scott Hawthorn's account of what had happened.

"_Even though I knew I hadn't really shot him it still felt like I had. It felt like he was dead." Scott had quoted._

**NET DETECTIVES SHERLOCK AND JOHN SAVE PREGNANT MOTHER FROM MURDERING PSYCHOPATH! **

"_I panicked when I heard the front door open. I ran behind the curtains like they do in the movies. He walked right by me, not five feet away and I snuck out the front door right behind his back. I didn't realize my mistake until it was too late." Maxime had said. "That's when Sherlock showed up, just in time."_

Sherlock began to wonder about Moriarty. About what kind of venomous death scheme he would plan next. This one had nearly been fatal.

Sherlock's mobile phone buzzed loudly and he reached for it.

_Wasn't that fun? Let's do it again sometime. I'll be in touch. __ -JM_

When John came downstairs he could tell immediately that Sherlock was brooding. He passed by him, fetched a cup of tea and sat at the opposite chair with his laptop. He scanned through the news articles.

"**NET DETECTIVES SHERLOCK AND JOHN, PLATONIC OR ROMANTIC?** Was on the front page of three different popular tabloids. John blushed deeply when he saw the photograph. It depicted Sherlock caught in the act of helping John to his feet. However, from the photograph you couldn't tell that's what he was doing. At the angle the photographer managed to shoot it at John appeared to be wrapped in Sherlock's arms and Sherlock appeared to be leaning in as if about to kiss John.

"Fantastic." John muttered, his voice thick with sarcasm.

"Your sister called." Sherlock muttered, not looking up from his own laptop.

"Hmm. What did she want?" John asked, still staring at the photograph.

"To ask you about yesterday."

John sighed. "What did she say to you?"

"She attempted to interrogate me and I told her I would tell you she called." Sherlock replied, eyes fixated on the computer screen.

"My friends will _never_ let me live that down." John breathed.

Sherlock glanced up at John. "You're embarrassed."

John thought about it for a moment. "Not embarrassed. Just. It's not like_ It's not like there is anything_ I've tried to tell everyone who wondered that there isn't and never has been_"

"John." Sherlock said, trying to interrupt.

"Doesn't matter what I've said, people always think it anyways and_"

"John."

"_I think it's pretty much going to be useless now trying to deny_"

"John I think you'll want to shut up now." Sherlock snapped.

"Irritating you, am I?" John snapped back.

"No, it's not that_ It's just_ I wasn't talking about the photograph_"

John blushed. "Ah. What did my sister want to know about then?"

"She wanted to hear your account of the story."

"Oh.. She can wait until I write it up."

"She was _also_ wondering about the photograph."

John sighed.

"Don't worry." Sherlock continued. "What she had to say about it was nothing compared to what bloody _Mycroft_ had to say."

"What did he have to say?" John asked casually. He glanced up at Sherlock.

John choked on his tea when Sherlock replied blandly. "He was_ more supportive than I thought he would be."

"Sorry, what?" John looked up at Sherlock.

"I assured him that he had it wrong and it was just a very well timed photograph. Or badly timed, depending on how you look at it." Sherlock replied. "Anyway. We have a client in Northampton."

John looked up, interested. "What's the case?"

"Apparently, there is a thing called the Clown of Northampton."

"Ahh, I read about all that... Some article on the web…"

"He walks around the city and people take pictures of him.. Stupid, isn't it? And now there's a killer Clown of Northampton, running around on a murder spree in the same costume impersonating the original."

John covered a smile with a hand. "Our client is the clown."

"Yup." Sherlock said, popping the P at the end.

"You know who the real clown is."

"What_ yes." Sherlock replied impatiently. "There have been six stabbings in the last couple of weeks all done by the Killer Clown of Northampton. The real clown wants his name cleared."

"Why hasn't he gone to the police?"

"He doesn't want to reveal his identity. Of course."

John chuckled. "We're hunting for a clown."

Sherlock sniggered too. "Here's something. The killer clown only stabs men who are around six feet tall and wearing duffle coats. Four people have been killed in the last two weeks and all of them have no other connection except for their gender, height and type of coat. Also, every stabbing has taken place during the graveyard part of the night. The police are requesting that the Clown of Northampton step forward to undergo a thorough investigation but the clown takes his secret identity very seriously."

"So he came to us…" John said, understanding. "Any ideas?"

"Obviously the killer clown is targeting a male around six feet tall that is known to wear a duffel coat. It would seem that the intended victim works from between one and eight in the morning someplace in Northampton and that the killer clown is trying to find them when they are walking home from work. The stabbings have all been within a three mile radius. Since the murders have continued it would seem that the killer is still searching for the intended victim. It would also appear that the killer doesn't have good eyesight from behind the clown mask since he keeps killing the wrong people."

"That's fantastic." John said, shaking his head. "So what are we going to do?"

Sherlock reached behind his chair and pulled out a plastic shopping bag. "I went out this morning and got _this_." He said, pulling out a black duffle coat.

John saw where he was going with it. "Right, so I take it we'll be staying in Northampton for a while?"

"I made arrangements for lodgings at a bed and breakfast in the area. Owner owes me a favor."

"Get him off a murder charge?" John asked, setting aside his tea.

"Convinced his daughter not to marry her charming, handsome fiancé by proving that he was a cheating, manipulative, pathological liar with a high conflict personality and an unspeakable number of illegitimate children."

"That was good of you."

"It was a slow week, I had nothing better to do and you were out of town." Sherlock said dismissively, waiving a hand.


	14. Chapter 14 - Comfort

**Chapter 14**

**Comfort**

John and Sherlock arrived in Northampton early that evening and checked in to the inn called The Crystal Cavern. It was a hearty, well-kept place with a cozy common room furnished in a classic Victorian style and run by a man that John thought resembled a shorter, plumper version of Marlon Brando. Sherlock greeted him warmly.

"Mr. Holmes, wonderful to see you again. What's all this nonsense in the papers about you being dead?" he asked, limping out from behind the counter with the help of a hooked cane.

"I'm sure you'll be able to read about it on John's blog soon enough. John, this is Tom Barleycorn."

"Yes, hello." John smiled, reaching out to shake the man's hand. Tom smiled, returned the handshake and passed John a room key.

"Didn't have much available on such short notice," he explained, leading them upstairs. "It should suit you both fine though. If you need anything at all, give me a ring."

"Thank you Tom, I'm grateful." Sherlock said, passing into the room.

"Not as grateful as I am to you…" Tom said. He looked at John. "Without him I may have ended up with the worst son in law imaginable."

John looked around the room. Small, with rose colored wallpaper and hard wood. It had a single bed.

"I'll leave you to it then, goodnight."

"Thank you. Goodnight." John said absently as Tom left. He looked at Sherlock, who was unpacking his things and placing them in the dresser beside the television.

"So. One bed then?" John asked, tossing down his bad.

Sherlock didn't turn around. "If you recall, Tom said he didn't have much to offer on short notice. Problem?"

John shrugged. "It's fine."

"We're most likely not going to be sleeping much anyways."

John looked up, alarmed. "Hm?"

"The killer is out during the graveyard portion of the night. We didn't come here for a holiday."

"Right."

It was midnight. John and Sherlock were on the threshold of the killer's territory, on an industrial avenue where innocent duffle coat wearing Englishmen trekked home from their evening security shifts and prayed that they would be safe. Sherlock walked alone, cladded in his own black duffle coat and a navy blue beanie. He'd looked into the previous employment of each victim and found that all had been nighttime security workers for one company or another. Each victim had been slaughtered within the same three mile radius, all on their way home from the job. John trailed a ways behind Sherlock, keeping an eye out for the killer they baited. Sherlock called it fishing. John called it a safety hazard. Sherlock argued further.

"More like, an occupational hazard." He'd said, smiling.

"Shut up." John had said.

It had rained earlier that day and the ground was slick. The light from the lamp posts made bright streaks across the otherwise dark street they walked. This was the second night they had been on the job. The first night they'd come back empty handed. Sherlock had done more research and made a guess on the area they expected the killer to strike. Time passed slowly as they wandered the streets. Before John knew it the midnight hour had come and gone. It was now two thirty in the morning. He yawned, watching from behind a dumpster as Sherlock meandered down a long, black alley. It had started to sprinkle lightly again. John's phone buzzed.

_This is taking forever. –S_

John rolled his eyes. He peaked out from behind the dumpster again and saw a flash of color at the end of the street. He froze. Sherlock had turned the corner and there, out of the darkness John witnessed what was perhaps one of the creepiest things he'd ever had the displeasure to encounter. Out of behind one of the damp brick buildings crept a baggy suited, white faced nightmare. It stalked slowly across the ground like something out of a movie. John waited until it had passed far enough that it wouldn't see him and then sneaked quickly and quietly after it. The clown rounded the corner after Sherlock, a wicked cleaver glinting in the moonlight. Sherlock walked at a slow pace and John wondered if he'd noticed he was being followed by the rainbow jester of death.

John drew his Browning and shouted in a clear, commanding voice.

"DROP YOUR WEAPON, HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!"

Both Sherlock and the clown whipped around. The clown tilted its head when it saw John and turned his back. Sherlock dashed towards it and the clown didn't hesitate to run back at him full force.

"Dammit!" John said, running forward. He wanted to avoid shooting the thing if possible. It ran at Sherlock, raising the cleaver high above its head. Gracefully Sherlock side stepped around the creature as it brought the weapon down in a slashing motion. Sherlock jumped aside as the clown took another swing. John came up behind the clown, which was much taller than John had originally realized and kicked him in the back of the knee hard.

The clown buckled and Sherlock disarmed it, throwing the cleaver across the ground. He delivered a swift kick to the thing's chest, knocking the wind from it as John jumped on its back. The clown stood up, trying to buck John off as he got an arm around its neck. It swung wildly, clocking Sherlock across the face. John sunk in a choke but the thing was strong and slowly it pulled him off. John fell to the ground and rolled to his feet. Sherlock right hooked it across the jaw hard and the clowned staggered backwards. It looked like it was about to get its bearings but the slick ground caused it to slip in what would have been a comical way had it not been such a threat. John ran forward and delivered a powerful front foot thrust kick to its chest. He leveled the gun at the things head, breathing hard. Sherlock was on the phone with the police.

"Stay where you are," John breathed. "Just, stay."

The clown was gasping under the mask. Sherlock reached out and tore the mask off, revealing a gruff looking Englishman with a patchy hairdo and a bloody mouth. Sweat poured off his face.

"Moron." Sherlock snapped, glaring at him. John heard sirens in the distance. The man's breathing was ragged. He grabbed at his left arm and leaned forward.

John frowned. "Ah, Sherlock_" he started to say.

The man grunted, falling on his face. Sherlock sighed impatiently. Sirens were wailing in the distance.

"He's having a heart attack." John said, rolling him over.

Sherlock glanced at John. "Better than being hanged."

The man started jerked when John tried to touch him.

"Get away!" he gasped.

A police car came roaring down the alley and Sherlock ran to meet it. Two others followed.

He and John stepped back to let the officers handle the situation.

"That was fun." Sherlock said, sweeping the hair out of his eyes.

"Killer clown. What next?" John asked, standing back.

"I hope he lives. I'd like to know who his intended target was…" Sherlock muttered.

John started to laugh but stopped when he noticed an officer approaching them.

An hour later they'd given their statements and were walking back to the inn.

"Going to sleep tonight?" John said, glancing askew at Sherlock. He hadn't managed to sleep since they'd arrived. After their excursion the night before John had slept from nine in the morning until around six at night and woke to find Sherlock sitting up in their bed, ticking away at his computer in the exact place he had been when John fell asleep.

"Probably should." Sherlock replied.

They rounded the corner of Ocapotstoph Drive and headed into the dimly lit common room of the inn. The adrenaline from their pursuit had worn off, leaving the pair tired and hungry. Sherlock nicked a few biscuits out of the kitchen on the way in. Now he sat on the edge of the bed, nibbling his food as he phoned the real Clown of Northampton. John went to shower.

As he basked in the hot water and steam John's mind wandered. The last few days had been tense and John wondered if Sherlock had been trying to break the ice by picking a stupid, easy case like this. He ran his hands through his hair, thinking about it.

In the other room Sherlock waited nervously. Despite the effort he was making to get their life back to normal Sherlock sensed not for the first time that something was still _off_ about their relationship. Curiosity had often arisen when he'd thought about it but putting that curiosity into words was something that Sherlock wondered if he was actually incapable of. His stomach grew tense when he thought about it. He heard the shower switch off with a thump and waited. A moment later John stepped out, cladded in his green pajamas with damp, towel dried hair. Sherlock stared at him. John stared back, eyebrows raised.

"What?" he asked.

Sherlock got to his feet. He was wearing his blue dressing robe and black pajama trousers. John's eyebrows furrowed, confused and Sherlock stepped closer to him. His breath had stilled as he stared up and Sherlock looked down at him with searching eyes. John was afraid to move. Slowly, Sherlock reached a hand out and cupped John's cheek.

"What are you doing?" John asked quietly.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked nervously.

John was startled when he realized the space between them had narrowed to a meager inch. He took a hesitant breath.

"I just need to know what we're doing. Right now." John said firmly, not breaking eye contact.

Blood rushed to his head as Sherlock reached out, placed his palms firmly on John's triceps and gently drew him close. Their chests were pressed together and Sherlock felt John's pulse spike.

"Sherlock," John growled, his voice scratching and uncertain. His nose was pressed just below Sherlock's throat.

"You're shaking?" Sherlock said quietly. John could feel the words rumbling in his chest.

"John. I've chosen these words carefully_ I can't tell you enough how sorry I am for what I put you through. I've gotten the feeling that you don't realize_ exactly what you mean to me." Softly, he slipped one of his hands around John's waist. John closed his eyes and stood perfectly still. His lips parted exhaling a quivering breath. Carefully he brought his hands up to rest on Sherlock's hips. It was a fragile connection between them. The closeness was held together with the most delicate grip.

The feeling was strange to Sherlock. He'd never allowed another person _this_ kind of physical connection before. He breathed deeply, taking in the feeling of John's firm, hands resting on his sharp hipbones and the warmth that was John's chest pressed against him. John smelled of tea and clean laundry. In that instant, Sherlock became powerfully aware of the hot, fluttering breaths that he could feel from John's mouth being pressed against his chest.

John's eyes closed tightly when he heard a stutter in Sherlock's breath. Heat was pooling in his stomach. Gently, Sherlock moved his other hand across John's back, resting it just above his tailbone. Sherlock lowered his head until his lips were resting just above John's ear. When John felt Sherlock's warm breath so close it took everything for him not to gasp. It was too much. He felt heat rush to his face, neck and thighs.

"Sherlock, seriously, what are we doing." John started to lean back but Sherlock's arms tightened around him. Then, he hesitated, slightly relenting in the grip.

"You've been angry with me. I thought it could help. Comfort."

"God, Sherlock. Okay_ look_" John said, struggling with himself. He was afraid of Sherlock feeling what might be happening in his body. He was afraid that it was happening at all.

"Relax." Sherlock pleaded. His mouth nuzzled against John's ear. John's teeth clenched and grip tightened on Sherlock's hips. Sherlock gasped softly. He'd never imagined the feeling of a physical connection could make him feel so deeply. There was an ache inside him, a wanting that he couldn't begin to describe.

John couldn't take it. He felt himself growing hard.

He spoke quickly. "Sherlock I think this is a different sort of comfort than you realize. I_ I don't know how to say it_ I don't know that you understand_" He tried in vain to pull away but Sherlock held him tightly until he stilled. John's heart was hammering. Fear was clouding his mind and he wanted to run before it was too late.

"I _really_ think you should let go." John said firmly.

Sherlock cut him off and John was shocked to hear desperation in his voice. "I'm doing my best to understand, John. I_Oh…" Sherlock stopped the instant he felt the pressure against his thighs.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he understood.

His hands clenched John roughly. Heat overwhelmed him. The air became thick with silence and tension.

John couldn't think, couldn't speak, he felt helpless. He tried to think of an excuse.

He opened his mouth to say something stupid in an effort to save face. He was desperate but the words died in his mouth as Sherlock's body betrayed him. Sherlock gave the softest of moans and John felt his willpower break when Sherlock grinded against him. John felt a throbbing, ridged hardness that now matched his own. Sherlock's lips parted and he panted heavily, nuzzling John's neck.

Before he knew it, John had pressed his lips to the soft skin of Sherlock's collarbone, causing him to gasp.

"Oh my god." John whispered. He wanted to hear it again. He had never wanted anything so badly in all his life. He reached a hand up and touched Sherlock's throat gently. Behind them was their bed and he guided Sherlock backwards slowly. When the back of his knees was against the edge of the mattress John stepped back. Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at him. His expression was timid.

"John." Sherlock whispered, his voice quaking.

"Do you want this?" John asked.

"I've never wanted this before in my life." Sherlock said. He looked down, focusing on John's chest. John reached up and cupped Sherlock's chin with his hand, forcing him to look up.

"Do you want this _now_? That is what I'm asking." he asked.

Sherlock didn't speak. He didn't know how to say yes. The easiest word to say and he couldn't bring his mouth to move. He just stared at John with pleading eyes. He reached out, grabbed John's other hand and pressed it to the side of his face.

"It's okay." John promised, looking into his eyes. Sherlock blinked. John leaned in, closing the distance between them and carefully, gently pressed his mouth against Sherlock's. John pressed soft kisses against his lips over and over again. Each kiss was careful and after a while he was slowly coaxing Sherlock's mouth open with his tongue. Sherlock's brain was racing, taking in the experience and analyzing his body's uncontrollable responses. Sherlock realized that he'd reached both hands around the back of John's neck, holding him close.

When Sherlock pulled John onto his lap he grinded his hips against Sherlock's and shuddered as he gave another soft whimper. He kissed him over and over again until they were breathless. In moments, his dress robe was off it was off and being tossed across the room.

Sherlock gasped when they connected again. There was nothing that could ever compare to the feeling of John's skin pressing against his body. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion. He was throbbing and when John reached down to take him in hand Sherlock let out a carnal moan. John stroked him firmly and was elated that he could make Sherlock quake with pleasure. Dimly, Sherlock was aware of his pants being tugged at. John felt Sherlock tense and stopped. He looked into Sherlock's eyes.

They were both breathing hard. John looked at Sherlock's nearly naked body.. Sherlock blushed as John's eyes traced over him shamelessly. When Sherlock didn't tell him to stop John grabbed his pajama trousers and carefully pulled them off, leaving him naked. Sherlock's stomach tensed and he broke eye contact, focusing on John's chest. John stared, his expression was hungry. John then tugged himself out of his own clothes.

Their legs intertwined and Sherlock found himself acting like an animal, thrusting against John with an unstoppable need. John moaned and Sherlock's heart skipped a dozen beats before resuming the bold thundering pace in his chest. It was too much to bear and yet still he needed more. He reached out, grabbing John's cock. He stroked it, pouring all of his need into the movement for long, heat filled moments. John moaned. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes. Pressure was building at the base of his spine.

"God, Sherlock, wait, if you don't stop I'm going to_"

"It's okay. Please," Sherlock begged, stroking him hard and fast. His voice was low. "Christ, please do."

The words alone were enough to send him over the edge and John gasped, shuddering as he released. It was sharp, clear pleasure that he could feel in every bone of his body. Normally, after an orgasm like that John felt spent.

Tonight was different. He was still hard. If anything, it had just made him want more.

Sherlock fell back when John gave him a firm push and the mattress creaked loudly. Sherlock gasped. John was kissing him everywhere. His lips pressed against Sherlock's mouth, jaw, throat and sucked at the tender skin at the base of his neck. Sherlock reached out, grasping John's still throbbing erection in his hand. John groaned, pressing against him. Enough was enough, the need was too great. He kissed down Sherlock's chest to his stomach and tenderly worked the sensitive spot in the ridged curve of Sherlock's hips with his tongue.

Sherlock was helpless as John took control, taking him into his mouth. Sherlock moaned loudly, reaching out to grasp a handful of John's hair. He half-heartedly tried to pull him away, unsure of what to do. He was unsure of the right thing to do. John grabbed both of Sherlock's wristed and held him down firmly. When Sherlock stopped struggling John released him, letting his hands wander back down to his thighs.

It was so much, too much, he couldn't take it. His cock pulsed deeply when John thumbed the glands at the base of it. Sherlock gave a wrecked cry, his back arching. It felt so good it _hurt_ and John was there, holding him through his release.

Sherlock was trembling from head to toe. John stroked his hair softly.

"Are you okay?" He asked, worried.

"I just don't know what to say." was the quivering response.

John nodded, understanding. Tenderly, he kissed Sherlock's mouth again. Sherlock was blinking sleepily. John took him in the curve of his arms, letting Sherlock's head rest on his chest. Sleep fell on them, soft and heavy.

The next morning John awoke to find Sherlock propped up on one elbow, looking down at him. John blinked sleepily.

"How long?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Jesus. Hullo." John said, remembering. "Sorry, how long what?"

"You're shaking again." Sherlock said quietly, gathering John close in his arms. "How long have we_ have you_?"

John felt Sherlock's hand resting on his stomach. He shook his head. "I don't know how long. I guess it took me long enough to admit it to myself."

"When was that?" Sherlock asked.

"When you dove over that cliff after me."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "That recent? Are you sure? After thinking about it I realized that I should have noticed, seen the signs before then."

"I told you, it took me a while to come to terms." John said, embarrassed. He reached up hesitantly and cupped Sherlock's face. Sherlock stared down at him.

"Alright?"

"Course' I'm alright."

Sherlock leaned in and pressed a kiss to John's mouth.

That morning Sherlock and John rose early to go to the Yard. He had previously given his statement to Lestrade, a full account of the events that had happened that night at Roselander mansion but there were still questions to be answered. Maxime Roselander and Scott Hawthorn had both given their statements and spoken to their family members regarding the events of that evening. John was in another room talking to Mike Stamford, who were there reporting a burglary.

As Sherlock exited Lestrade's office he ran squarely into Sargent Sally Donovan.

"Loved the interview you did for Mirror Sargent." Sherlock said cooly, smirking down on her.

Donovan looked both proud and embarrassed at the same time. When Lestrade had refused to give an interview she had stepped in and volunteered. Now, with Sherlock's name being cleared and the news reaching the public she looked like an absolute arse. The last few mornings her inbox had been packed with hate mail from hundreds of Sherlock fans.

"Suppose I owe you an apology." She said, folding her arms.

"It's fine." Sherlock said, shrugging. "I gave a responsive statement this morning."

"A responsive statement?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"You'll find out in the next issue."

Donovan huffed a bitter laugh. "Suppose I deserve that."

"Yes."

Donovan held her chin high. "Loved the picture of you and your _boyfriend_ on the front page of the Standard. You're adorable together." She said curtly, stepping around Sherlock.

"Thank you." He replied. The awkward tone is his voice made Donovan stop.

John and Mike Stamford rounded the corner to see her staring at Sherlock, open mouthed. Lestrade stepped out of his office.

"_What's_ going on?" he asked, looking around.

John pursed his lips and looked at Sherlock. "What have I missed?"

"No_ seriously?" Donovan asked, looking between Sherlock and John. Mike raised his eyebrows.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock tried not to smile.

John groaned, realizing what was happening. He put a hand to his head. "Yes, seriously. Piss off, the lot of you."

"What_ _really_?" Lestrade asked, eyebrows high on his forehead.

Mike let out a hearty laugh. "I _knew_ you'd gone gay mate!"

"No, have you met John?" Lestrade said, unbelieving.

"Shut up." John snapped at Lestrade. Lestrade looked at Sherlock.

"Seriously?" he asked.

"Oh, you've all been joking about it long enough. Are you really surprised?" Sherlock asked.

"Well. Yeah." Lestrade replied, putting his hands up. "When did this happen?"

"I don't think John wants to talk about it anymore." Sherlock answered.

"Good deduction." John replied, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Lestrade's phone rang and he picked it up. Sherlock looked down at John.

"It's fine. I don't care." John said, looking up at him.

Sherlock smiled. "Yes you do."

"Give me a bit of time and I won't. Just going to take some getting used to." He said quietly.

"I know." Sherlock said.

"Oy, Sherlock. I've got an odd one…" Lestrade said grimly, hanging up the phone. "Three dead men found in an empty house off of McLune and Dunnon. They've been put in dresses and set up around a table. It's decorated like a tea party. All three shot in the head execution style and none of them have any kind of identification on them. Will you come?"

"Go on ahead, I'll follow in a cab behind." Sherlock replied. He looked down at John. "Coming?"

"Ready when you are." John said.

Sherlock smiled, stepping towards the door. "The game is on."


End file.
